Everyone has those stories they tell people when they first meet them. The essential biographical information, a brief timeline of important life events, tales of substance abuse, sexcapades, childhood trauma, what your parents did or didn’t do that fucked you up but you’re fine now, maybe.
Then there’s the next level of stories that you tell the people you get to know a little better, maybe the ones you sleep with. The “secrets,” or what have you, or things that don’t paint you in the most flattering light, things that aren’t funny, things that seem trivial but somehow they come up.
You might tell them to lots of different people, or not. You might not tell everything to everyone, but between them collectively, maybe you’ve said it all (or come close). These people may come in and out of your life, you may have met them once, but the stories are forever floating around. You might have collected some from other people as well.
And then what.
hey girl when u say ur addicted to coffee i know u r addicted to attention
My wallet costs more than however much money I ever have in it.
What happens when the Earth runs out of land for burying dead people.
— Madonna, “Sex.”
"I mean, I feel like I’m the best lesbian Kalamazoo has to offer, and I say that genuinely—even though it’s like, I wouldn’t win in a fight against any of them, and I’m crazier than all of them, so, I’m probably not…well okay, personality-wise, I’m like, at the bottom—but I think I am the best."
- Me, 11.26.12, found in a recording on my phone of a fragmented 3AM conversation. Too much ego.
No material possession I’ve ever lost has ever ended up being of any importance.