University Days, U.K.
Maybe, instead of buying another pair of shoes, redecorate my bedroom for the second time in this month, kissing strangers or booking flights and wearing my pajamas with a jumper on it pretending my sex appeal is still okay, I should focus on something concrete, on something good. One of those things that take effort and sweat and dedication and once done they make your chest feel lighter and your daily glass of wine less of a dereliction.
Maybe this insatiable drive of mine – constant crave for clothes I don’t need and nights swallowed into glasses of sparkling self-confidence, affection for trivial characters hidden inside the pages of thick books and portraits in expensive magazines, phantoms living crystal clear existences but vomiting fancy brunches before taking another photo of their thigh gap -, is symptom of a deeper emptiness, butterflies in my stomach drowned in the abyss of indifference and small talks I cultivated.
Fuck it, I might as well place this umpteenth order online and feel miserable about it while eating some fat-free yogurt.