It’s strange to think that long before I had a name or a heartbeat, I existed in some shadowed, elemental way. Women are born with all the eggs they'll ever have, and these begin forming while they're still in the womb. So when my mother was just a fetus, the egg that would become me was already inside her. That means my grandmother carried not just my mother, but the beginning of me as well. For a fleeting moment, the three of use shared one body, and went through life together, layered like nesting dolls.

more and more lately im getting the feeling theres something deeply wrong with me and everybody in the whole world can tell no matter what im doing and also they want me dead forever over it

earlier today i told an acquaintance in passing that i'll often be in the middle of a novel and think "man i wish this shit were more ambiguous" and had to reiterate twice that i wasn't being sarcastic before they believed me, so this post is to say: i love when writers don't bother to explain everything, i love when stories end uncertain and unsettling, i love being required to think as a reader, i love when stuff makes no damn sense, no i'm not kidding