USED TO BE

God. What? You want to give up? You’re a weak fucking bitch, aren’t you.

It’s literally week 1, Shao. Just week 1 and a little night class or two scares you? What would you do with that time anyway? You don’t play games any more. You have “lost interest in activities you once loved”, haven’t you?

You’d certainly hang with others. You can’t miss out. You really don’t have the money to hang out with others… You do, but it’s not your money. You should be working. But fuck it, you couldn’t plan your graduation modules properly and now-

What? It’s not about- She snapped at you? Why? I’m kidding. I know why. But this why meant, like “Why’s she your entire world?” Why not some random… Ugandan’s opinion? So her individual opinion means absolutely who you are? So you thought, with your brain zapping like a toaster in a tub, that you’d come out of helping untangle another mess of wires, completely unscathed? You fucking bowlhead, what the hell did you expect? Yes, bowl head, get rid of the fucking bangs-

Fuck, wait. You’re crying? I didn’t- God, what the fuck, you’re just a projection- I-

Okay. Stop- just stop tearing up- and don’t write about it- Jesus. Fine. Whatever. I promise I’ll stop shouting at you inside your cavernous skull, if you promise to start trusting. Her. And yourself.

It’s not a big deal… uh… Things will be better! Don’t let it cling to you like smoke cancer to your lung things. I-

God. I’m so, so at ease at helping others feel better, but when it comes to you… It’s impossible. Jesus. Christ.

Jesus fucking Christ. You used to be better. So much better. What happened, Shao? What happened?

A cold wind topples you over. A sentence knocks the wind out of you, a text cramps your heart into a vice, an obsession strikes your brain into a jar, you’ve gotten fat, you’re wrong all the time, you’ve lost three things this week, you you you. What the fuck do you want? Does the world revolve around you or not?

Wait. You know what? Fuck. Fuckit. Fuck it! Go to sleep. Follow your advice for her. You shitty fuckhead. Gym tomorrow. Sweat it out. You got that at least.

Baby steps, baby steps. It’s your advice. It’s easy, right? Do it.

Talk to me when… you don’t have that shitty pout on your face.