fire with fire

don’t you just want to forget, sometimes? crawl into the freshly washed sheets, and let yourself drown in the strangling humidity.

or just stare into the mirror, unable tear your eyes off the bulge of your stomach. or those chunky thighs. and i know it’s just a game, i know it’s just a lie but… i guess it’s hard not to fall for these things, sometimes.

so i’ll beg my false god for forgiveness. i’ll kneel at his feet. i’ll say thank you, and please. and yet still… no matter what i feed his hungry jaw, it will never appease.

so i’ll fight fire with fire. i’ll set my good luck charm alight.

i think it’s long past time i learned to accept that this twisted fantasy, of crisp dollar bills, of fortune and fame… it doesn’t love me. doesn’t care, if i make it through the night.

all it wants is one more flame. bright, and desperate. and so full of life…

I guess I’ll start at the beginning.

I’ve spent so much of my life thinking money was the endgame–if that makes sense. That if I could just save up this much, suddenly, all the problems in my life would just go away. I literally have kept thousands of dollars of birthday money over the years, and honestly, that was one of the best decisions I’ve made in my life. I would much rather be able to move out after I graduate than have blown it on tacky animal hoodies circa 2012 at the dollar store, or Diary of a Wimpy Kid books, you know what I mean?

But back then, spending it ever wasn’t the goal. It was this strange safety blanket, something that set me apart from everyone else. Whenever I felt threatened by a situation, that money was the first thing I reminded myself of. Spending so much as a dollar–it felt like giving up a limb. It still does, now I think about it. Sometimes, I just lie awake at night panicking that something’s going to happen to that money, that I’m not going to be able to get enough of it fast enough, my mind flashing through all of these nightmare scenarios.

I think part of that is caused by the way I was raised. My parents always brought me up as an independent person, which I am glad for. But that combined with my anxiety combined with the culture I was brought up in really only served to reinforce the concept, at as young an age as five or six, that if I didn’t have enough money, bad things were going to happen, and when they did, no one would come to help me.

For so long, all I dreamed of was wealth. I didn’t care, about liking my job, or about having a loving relationship with friends, family, or whatever. All I wanted was to know I’d be safe–forever.

When I was ten, and starting to get into writing, I remember casually telling my mom in the car that I could always probably fund my career with a rich husband, if all else failed. She laughed like it was a joke, but honestly, it’s still an option I consider sometimes.

I don’t think of myself as a selfish, or ruthless person. But in a thousand tiny ways, I can be. And I hate that.

But it feels like it’s what I have to do right now to survive. Even if makes me feel awful.

I don’t know. Just something that’s been on my mind of late .

Lots of love,


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