Some people believe very strongly in destiny. Some believe destiny will bring them love, or vengeance, or enlightenment.

I believe it’s my destiny to kill myself. I don’t know when, how, or why I’ll die. But it will be my own doing.

It’s not like I walk through each day as a stereotypical suicidal person (the invention of a stereotype for suicidal people is probably the most dangerous thing for a suicidal person outside of themselves). If anything, I appreciate my life so much more because I already understand the death at the other side. I try to enjoy every day as much as I can, to make up for that one day when I decide it won’t be worth it anymore.

Death is not a burden to me. Death is a mother with a curfew. I proudly flaunt my accomplishments and I’m allowed to revel in them, as long as I remember what time I need to come back. I can have as much fun as I want to at the party of my life, but I know who I need to go home with at the end of the night. And one day I’ll grow weary and child-like, crying until Death picks me up like a tired toddler and carries me home.

I had a dream last night where I saw you again. You were about to go off with your band but we stopped for a minute and kissed.

I haven’t been kissed like that since I left my ex-boyfriend for the last time, when I told him how scared I was for the future, for our future. Almost 12 months and 2 boys later, no boy has kissed me the same way. “With a gale that also makes the cattails shudder,” one song describes it.

Even if you had wanted to, I refused to kiss you like that. Kissing you was lying by the cattails, closing my eyes and focusing on the cold water rushing along my body. I wouldn’t say I made myself drown as much as I made myself forget the need to breathe. I drowned in you to forget that I am drowning every day.

We had no goodbye kiss. We had one night and woke up as though it didn’t happen. The one time I said your name while we were together was to let you know it was your turn to use the motel shower. We went around town as friends until we had to rejoin our group, and then I drove home the next day like nothing. I don’t remember if I hugged you or if we just high-fived like children.

But every kiss we had was underwater. I had to kiss you behind any kind of barrier. It had been too long since anyone was this close and I shudder to imagine the consequences of unleashing everything that burdened me. I shudder to imagine kissing you for the person you are instead of kissing you for carnal release.

Not that there’s anything wrong with the person you are. Maybe we disagree on some political matters. Maybe you’re rational to the point of being insensitive, while I’m sensitive to the point of being irrational. We’re good friends and I have no complaints about our one night together (except for anything in the first story that qualifies as a complaint). But these are reasons I carry in moments of weakness for why I should never want you again. Things are easier as friends, and I nearly lost that once.

Yet after I came home from seeing you and our friends, I found myself in possession of envy. Maybe it was from everything we said to each other as we began planning our encounter. Maybe it was from lacking any human touch for seven months. But your busy schedule and social life left me nervous as I worried I had outlived my usefulness. Though I conceded we were dreadfully incompatible as a couple, I found myself wracked with the desire to be desired by you again. All I worried about was being a girl you noticed, a girl you liked. I was just as sadistic as you had hypothesized during one of our philosophical debates. I just wanted to be a girl you liked. Not even then, considering your bacchanalian tendencies and polysexuality. I know you like many girls. I wanted to be THE girl you liked, perhaps not the only one, but definitely the one you wished for the most.

With all of this in mind and with me completely out of my mind, it made me so happy to dream last night that we had such a gentle kiss. With it, I can abandon yearning externally for your affection or attention.

Looking back on one dream’s kiss will satiate me enough that I will never feel a need to risk showing feelings by kissing you again.

More likely than not, this blog will be a series of read more posts such as “This is a master post where I vent about Friend X” “This is a master post about Person Y.” If one post is particularly long, it will be a separate read more post

This is a master post about a boy I recently had sex with. It is, quite obviously, “not safe for work.” Let’s call him John.

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