I can clearly remember the moment I first realised my mother and I were living on completely different planes of existence. I was 7 years old and I came home from my school’s first track and field day having placed second or third in every event. the teachers had been making jokes all afternoon about how many times they had to call my name. my friends thought I was cool as shit. my enemies thought I was cool as shit too, come to think of it. I was proud as hell. so I get home with the entire front of my shirt covered in ribbons like I was a military dictator who’d awarded himself every medal, I walk into the kitchen and tell my mum all about my day, and she goes “oh, that must be disappointing not getting any firsts.” and I’m like no?? first of all the first place ribbons are red and I don’t like red. second of all look at me. there’s literally nowhere left on my body for accolades. I am fucking Jacked of All Trades. how could this possibly be a disappointment.
Too much movement makes your joints hurt and too little movement also makes your joints hurt. This would imply that there’s an optimal amount of movement that allows your joints to not hurt. This is a lie.
mastering ancient breathing techniques in the mountains of china to control my heart rate finely enough to jam out a sick tune on the hospital’s heart monitor
sorry for [remembering a tumblr post about expressing gratitude instead of apologising to make the interaction more positive for the other person] i mean thank you for having a boyfriend who was so easy to run over withmy car and reverse over three times maybe four
