i’m a liar because i’ll tell you how much i hate this, this living ordeal, i’ll complain my way through an hour or two at a coffee shop/bar/angry phone call from an apartment balcony i’ll say this but if i hated it like i said i do. wouldn’t be writing. wouldn’t be finding flowers to put in empty jars. wouldn’t say thank you, thank you, wouldn’t stand in warm water for an hour or more just to see what it’s like, today. if i hated it i wouldn’t care about it so passionately, wouldn’t white knuckle my way through wanting it to work so badly. a true hate would be numbing out and accepting, a true distaste for life would be an indifference to it. i’ve always written that my first real love was with life my first roller coaster romance, first earth shattering heartbreak, first all encompassing obsession and i stand by that. always have.