Kurt Vonnegut

…you are what you pretend to be.

a slow death

You say that you want to spend less together, that you need the space – and no, not the space to be yourself, to be with others – to be with books. Books. I’m replaced by sleepless nights of poring over Economics notes, by workout sessions with the bboys, by the fact that you’d much rather get a A than lie in bed on lazy Sunday morning, tracing the beauty marks on our bodies.

No, it doesn’t bother me. It doesn’t bother me like it doesn’t bother me that I’m less significant than a perfect problem set, that I’m less cool than a successful windmill followed by a sick 90, that a wild weekend in NYC pales in comparison to a studious weekend in Philly.

I’m a passive aggressive bitch, but I’m tired of my own mind games. Big D always said to never ask questions to which you didn’t want to know the answer. Somehow, I still love to play the games in which you always come out on top.

So what’re you up tonight? Going to bed early?

At some point, you will notice that I have willed myself to stop caring. By then, it’ll probably be too late. We’d already be far too gone.