is it okay to talk to the internet the same way I talk to my boyfriend?

(it's all about me)

who slices up a pan of brownies like that am I a psycho?

As a young girl, I dreamed of being Carrie Bradshaw, typing away at my very own gummy bear blue iMac. About what? I’m not sure. Perhaps some dreamed up sexcapades. Or, more likely, utter nonsense. Anyway. I told you about that and you pointed out I have very much achieved my dream. Albeit not quite so publicly. 

The question is, do I really want everyone reading my diary? No, not really. Only you. Then again, maybe. It feels a bit invasive, but I kinda like that. God knows it’s draining to not be seen. I want to be more open. What stops me is my room is hot pink and the kitchen is a mess. I mean, not really. There are magazines and these placemats I don’t like and the cat stuff everywhere and it’s just so not instagram chic but then again, I wanna be on YouTube and if Emma Chamberlain can do it, so can I. The thing is, I am guilty. Of wanting attention. But what’s wrong with that? I’ll be the first to admit I want you to see me. 

I’m contradictory. So, aren’t all of we? Is that grammatically correct? I don’t mind if it isn’t because it tastes good to my eardrums.

Note to self: consider you already know the answers to your questions but you just don’t wanna hear them. And that’s why you're asking.

I feel stuck but really things just aren’t as frenetic as they were. When I start something new, time speeds up and mostly I am upside down and spinning for a while, I don't know how long, and then something clicks — I settle into understanding and the clock stops ticking. Not that I have ticking clocks; I can’t stand the incessant metronome. I breathe better without being reminded of the seconds.

Rest feels less threatening than it once did. Don’t make fun of me — I’m proud that I can finally enjoy binging YouTube videos a couple times a week. And that I made the big pan of nutella brownies and I’m actually eating them, even though I’m keeping track of calories. There’s a give and take. Actually it’s more frightening to know than to not know and one time you said, “maybe you could use the intimidation,” and it’s true. The numbers seem big. 2000. Wow. Some days I reach that and it astounds me that I’ve not turned into a cow. Sue me for saying it. I don’t care. I have aesthetic preferences beside my strength goals. I feel better in a particular figure, more connected with my body. The appearance is a symptom of the deeper feeling and it’s easy to get the association backwards. 

Hold on. Let me tell you how I eat the brownies. I cut off a square, then cut the square into thin slices that I eat off the knife. Something about biting straight into a brownie does not sit right with me. I like cutting through the crispy, crackly crust and feeling the blade struggle through the dense chunks of chocolate alternating with perfectly fudgey (never cakey) dough. Is it still dough once it’s cooked? Are brownies made of dough or batter? What’s the difference?

I used to be against cutting pizza with a knife and fork but now I’ve reconsidered that, too. Though once it’s cut I still pick it up with my fingers because I like to feel the weight of it.

In a past life, I needed everything to feel flat, flat, flat. I don’t mind a bit of curve now. My legs will never be those twigs I used to covet and my ass has always been one of my best assets, even before the years of hip thrusts (which I don’t do anymore because you have to reorganize the entire gym to set them up and they’re not the best way to build an ass anyway). But now I like my stomach, too, at least most (?) days. And on the days I don’t, I don’t blame it on my stomach. Maybe I ate too much salt. Maybe my body didn’t want all that. Maybe being bloated is not the end of the world (even though it feels it). When I move it feels better, so I move. And I remember something mysterious and beyond my control is going on inside me. Processes, you know? Transformation and whatnot. And it’s fine. I’ll come back into balance. It’s always a wave.

The wave is what scares me, the not knowing when I’ll go over the cliff. Maybe I should start cliff diving. Of course then I’d need to find a cliff. Though, writing this is a bit like flinging myself into the abyss anyhow, so it’ll do for now. But in three weeks’ time I’ll be diving into the ocean and wiping salt from my eyes, not just because I’ll be missing you but also because I’ll actually be at the ocean. And no, I probably won’t wear enough sunscreen because I dunno, there’s something different about the feeling on my skin — the barrier — that kills me a little more than the sun might. Maybe I’m crazy but fuck it. One day we’ll go to Hawaii and you’ll show me the ocean and the mountains you grew up in, and maybe there I’ll wear sunscreen. 

You tell me to write what I’m really good at. What am I really good at? Feeling stuff and not editing myself. Being turned on. Stream of consciousnessing, from words to body, or is it body to words? Fuck if I know. Gosh I say fuck a lot. And I edit myself too much online. It’s dry and boring and it’s no wonder when I tried to appeal to a larger audience, they bit less. Okay, fine, I’m not for everyone. I can’t convince you to do what doesn’t light your fire; I’m not in the business of politics. But damn do I feel the need to say you could loosen up a bit. Yes, I’m saying it to both of us. 

Move. Just move. 

Lifting is not catharsis for me; it’s the opposite. Bringing power into the system. Well, maybe it’s releasing it, too, but it feels more internal. Imploding. Absorbing power, space, weight, gravity. I suppose to be strong in public and exploding with power is a catharsis in itself, so there’s that. But for me the more delicious catharsis comes after. One of my favorite times to journey to orgasm city is after a grueling workout. 

If tension, then release. 

Regular old stretching doesn’t cut it for me. I do have a particular set of skills. An ability to hold tension and release it in just the right measure to produce pleasure. That’s what living is, isn’t it? Avoiding pain and seeking pleasure?

I have to say my inner ecosystem is quite like I imagine heaven. Of course, heaven isn’t one note of utter happiness. Wouldn’t that be more like hell? Groundhog day? My heaven has contrast. Exciting obstacles like learning to backflip and creating a home with the perfect spatial arrangement. Oh, and choosing an outfit that mirrors my mood so precisely it feels like I’m not wearing anything. Which might often have me wearing nothing but 6 inch bubblegum pink platforms, but who knows? Surely I’d become a high fashion everything. And yes I would have a camera crew follow us around and ask us questions and maybe you’d act annoyed but secretly like it. Or maybe in heaven you embrace the want for attention, too, because you know you’re brilliant and honestly, who wouldn’t buy that box set? Even though it’s on YouTube, we make the DVDs to be retro, and there are vintage crewnecks, too, don’t worry. Yeah, we’re kinda famous. You told me you could go live in a cave and be happy, and I’d go with you, but I think it’ll be more fun this way.

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