The more I’m proud of myself, the more I do things I’m proud of.
I matched with her on Tinder. She was gorgeous. IS gorgeous. Probably. We never met.
I did the button up on my suit jacket and, with a bounce in my step, I walked over. She looked at me. I smiled. She smiled. Man I wanted to grab her face and kiss her.
Happiness is a habit. I’m the one who chooses happiness into existence.
When I saw you together for the first time I couldn’t take my eyes off you. I was so happy for you both. I longed for what you had.
He’s not doing that well after all, then. I was hating. I hate that. When I compare myself to others.
She reached out to me and told me she was sorry for the way she’d treated me at the end. That was kind of her. She didn’t have to do that. She could’ve been doing something fun.
I can’t stop listening to it. Perhaps I’ll make a diss track for anyone who hates on this post.
I found myself in the fetal position on my bed. I didn’t know what to do. There was nothing else. This was the only relief. Everything was forced. My job, my life, my projection to the universe.
Was it because you don’t think people are kind to you? Was it because you didn’t want to be taken advantage of? Was it because you don’t think you deserve kindness and so you’re not going to give it to anybody else?