I actually think that you have to eat novels to be a great writer. I finished Les Miserables last week and now I can write for hours because I have the dietary fibre of a giant sequoia tree.
Tryna lay claim to some more books before this January’s end, i still haven’t finished orientalism. Pretty easy read now, shit was arcane to me 4 years ago.
want to cry thinking about all the years i spent so badly wanting to fit in (and trying! but being so comically bad at it) and then making an earnest attempt to recover from yrs of self loathing only to discover im still the person i wanted to bury away & im unearthing her
hate when a dream is very literal and just blatantly about my current anxieties and preoccupations without any fun clues to decode, because this means that the meaning must be somehow even more opaque to me…maybe