miranda luiz
January 4
3:42 p.m.
2018
Miserable night. Can’t sleep for shit. Too scared to sleep, can’t figure out why. I’m going to close my eyes, cuddle up, and try. Once the light is off and I’m comfortable, perhaps the anxiety will pass… Anxiety. I shouldn’t read exciting books before bed. Now I must try to get comfortable and think of better things. Goodnight. I feel better. I think my mother knew that we don’t have an existential grip on happiness; rather, we’re running eternally from misery.
January 5
3:16 a.m.
2018
There was a point tonight that I just snapped at him. My beloved friend! I slammed my fork and knife on my plate, clenched my shoulders up to my ears, and tossed my head back in a twisted ball of rage. He looked back at me with shock and fear—the way men do when their sanctity is questioned. “Jesus Christ, will you just let me eat my fucking eggs?!” Shock spread across his face like butter on bread. “What?” he asked nervously. I hesitated to respond, filled with nervous caution and vicious frustration. “I’m just sitting here, trying to eat my food, and you keep telling me to take it all in one bite. This isn’t the first time I’ve eaten eggs before.” I sighed. “Please, can you just PLEASE shut up and let me eat.” My friend looked at me with understanding and confusion. I think he was shocked
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