happy

“I love you. They’re only three words, but they’re the three truest words I know. And I’ll be saying them to you forever.”

In all these years, you never believed I loved you. And I did. I did so much. I did love you. I even loved your hate and your hardness.

I hope you find someone who holds you like you’re the greatest piece of art God’s ever put in their hands.

In the end. we all just want someone that chooses us. Over everyone else. Under any circumstances.

This is why girls are so much more employable than young men in all the shitty, less-than-subsistence-level service jobs they’re trying to cram young people into across Europe and America. Girls are better at pleasing other people and plastering on the pretty grin even when we’re screaming inside. That’s what being a girl is. Girls are better at this sort of labour, often called ‘emotional labour’, not because there’s anything in the meat and matter of our living cells that makes us naturally better but because we’re trained to it from birth. Trained to make other people feel good. Trained to serve the coffee, fill in the forms, organise the parties and wipe the table afterwards. Trained to be feisty, if we must, but not strong. To be bubbly, not funny. You must at no stage appear to have a body that functions in a normal human way, that pisses and shits and sweats and farts and falters. Decorate the prison of your body. Make yourself useful. Shut up and smile.