has anyone ever had the problem where you literally never want to do anything that you cannot reap benefits from immediately
like maybe I’m hungry but everything I have in the house at the moment would take 10+ minutes to prepare so I just……put off making the food for WAY longer than it would have taken to prepare the food when I first got hungry
Or i want to order some necessary thing online but the website says it will take a week to get here and i’m like “oh well fuck that” so I put off ordering it for like a week
Or if im like “I should clean my room because I like when it’s clean” but I know it’ll take me a couple hours so I don’t do it for like six months
It’s like there are only two times for me: right this instant and The Entire Rest Of The Future.
Just close your eyes and think about how many things we’ll get to see on tv. Ronan’s nightmares. The cardboard Henrietta model in Gansey’s room. Gansey’s room. Monmouth. The Pig. Maura’s tarot deck. Kavinsky’s Fourth of July fiasco. Ronan pulling objects out of his head. Adam and Cabeswater’s interactions. The REMEMBERED scene. Like fuck, I’m so excited to watch all of this and SO MUCH MORE
it is tiring, being endless political just as someone existing. my teacher asks me if i’m writing more of that “feminist poetry.” a lot of it is just talking about me, being a woman, being afraid in the city. i write about walking a line, about how i am expected to choose between home and work, how each comes with a slew of its own insults; how it feels when i am wearing shorts and there are too many men outside. these are just facts of my life. someone in the comments says, “where are woman even coming up with these crazy generalizations in their feminism?”
i hold hands with the prettiest girl i’ve ever seen and someone sighs when they see me. “do they have to make everything gay?” she asks her friend, loudly, “like, do you have to force those views in my face all the time?” i can’t stop blushing. my girlfriend holds my fingers tighter, tighter, tighter, until my knuckles are white, and i let her. somehow, this is us, protesting.
my father’s cuban blood stains my skin, i think. when i am honored with a position in the dean’s private council, a boy sneers, “you only got in because you’re hispanic.” did i? i spend the rest of our meetings wondering if i was selected for my stellar academic record, for the multiple recommendations, for the clubs i lead – or if i was just a move the dean made, to make use of me. when we all take a picture, the dean brings me in the front. in the first three we take, i am not smiling.
it is odd. “i exist.” i say, “i deserve to exist.”
“oh my god,” he groans, “we get it, you’re a feminist.”
clintbbarton 