Let’s not be a three.
I never liked myself, not now, not then, not even the me an hour ago. Once in awhile, I look at traces I leave behind, as foreign as I try to look them as, that’s really just my face staring back, telling me to stop bullshitting myself.
I’ve come to learn that I’m not very fond of myself. Am I going through a phase? I hope I am. But no, this isn’t some familiar narrative I’m trying to pull, I’m not white, like fuck I’m not trying to look like I need therapy for a boost in self-esteem. I have too much of that, way too much I hate it. It’s so unfounded it baffles me.
2020, a start of a new decade. I’m turning 23 this year, also I didn’t want to start the sentence with ‘I’ for the third time, cause you see, it’s really a process I’m trying to go through here, the whole ‘let’s be less me-centric!’ kind of vibe. Again, probably not going to work because at this point, I’ve come to also learn how much I can’t separate myself from what I intrinsically am – a 3.
Trent called Duncan a 3. What a cunt. (Side note to self, let’s stop being so crude) But if Trent called me a 3, can’t argue with that, cause Duncan’s the true I-need-help-and-as-long-as-I-meet-the-right-people-everything-will-be-fine but I’m the one that lives outside the world of cinematics and in the reality of what isn’t. I won’t go into sobering details of why I deserve a 3, pray, God may even whisper softly into my ear tonight, “dear, you sure you’re not over-evaluating yourself?” I think I have some self-love to at least say I belong in the ranges of a 3.
Even still, as much as I try to juggle with self-induced anxiety and the extremities of what my mind is, as much as I am a self-proclaimed 3, I am trying to embark on a journey, cheesy, to grow a little this year. I want me in the next 3 hours, in the next 3 months, 3 years, to not look back at this post and shrivel in disgust and revulsion.
2020! 23! 3.1! Just a little, and maybe I will come to like you a little.
Accord No.3 