Bouncing from place to place making sure everybody loves him and nobody knows him. I don’t know why I wrote that in third person. The data is hard to follow, hard to map, and supplied by myself, so it’s biased, flawed, inaccurate, and quite variable. I’m worried I’ll fail my stats class, but I’m more worried that I could not care less.
I want to make it easier to know me. If you’re earnestly corny, is it still corn? I love corn anyways: grilled, buttered, on a stick, in my ass, on an organic farm, a corny joke, a corncob pipe, a button nose. Fuck. There I go again. Where is the balance? I’ve been dreaming, no- plotting, for ways to make all my people pleasing go away, but the only answer I find is seclusion. A liberating solitude.
Yet, I find the greatest potential for meaning in my life to be the connections I have and had. I cannot control those whom I love. Craving control hurts like hell. I’ve been thinking too much. Just do good Joe. And feel good too.
I worry I’m too flagrant with my love. What if I run out? It’s a common theory too. One that is (probably) backed by data. Just trust me on that one… I’m not going to love anyone unless I really love them, and I’m going to trust myself to know when the love is real. You trust me? I do. You trust me. I trust you too.
The world ends every day, and this fact is liberating and suffocating. I’m new every day, and maybe that’s why it’s hard to know me. Follow the data and follow your heart. Follow me into the woods and unfollow my instagram. Just kidding. I speak more there than here… or here than there? No one can even hear me there. Or here. The music’s too loud and we’re all doing too much thinking. No one can hear me anywhere. I couldn’t hear my doctor at the dentist today. Old ears. New tricks.
You can only know 100 people. Total. Once you hit 100 it’s a one in, one out policy. Never forget that. 100 is the max.
Leave a Reply