Just Writing Stuff Down

(warning- it's a piece of mind piece. If it offends, well...) There’s a kind of exhaustion that doesn’t come from doing too much — it comes from pretending. Pretending to like things you don’t. Pretending to want things you never asked for. Pretending to be someone who fits better on a feed than in real life. And honestly? I’m over it. I’m over the aesthetic-for-others energy. I’m over the “live like you’re being watched” mindset. I’m over trying to frame my life like it’s a trailer, hoping someone — a person, a college, the universe — will finally call it impressive. Because here’s the truth: I get told, “That’s why you don’t have a man,” when I crack one too many bad jokes, or take up too much space, or dare to not dim my personality to look desirable. And for a while, I let that statement linger. I let it land. But not anymore. You think that’s an insult? “You don’t have a man”? That’s your best shot? If the price of a"relationship" is my silence, my softness, my self ...

There’s something beautifully stupid about writing when you absolutely shouldn’t be. Like, the kind of rebellion that makes no sense but still feels like a small victory. Right now, I have a PE exam on Saturday. PE. As in, Physical Education. As in, the subject that’s supposed to be “easy” but somehow contains more charts, definitions, and health-related guilt than a fitness influencer’s Instagram story. And yet, here I am, not revising somatotypes or the Rockport Fitness Test, but writing a blog post. Because my brain whispered, “Write a little, it’ll help you study,” and I — being the gullible little content goblin I am — believed it. To be fair, my brain is rarely helpful during exam season. It has the attention span of a squirrel on French Press coffee or Chai (which, ironically, is what I run on). I’ll sit down with the full intention of studying about flexibility or cardiorespiratory endurance, and five minutes later, I’m staring into the abyss, wondering why we have knees. Like ...

I didn’t know what to write today. Actually, I opened this blog with zero ideas. Like… less than zero. Empty mind. Full head. If that makes sense. (To be fair, I was tired studying and I was on a break, just like Ross and Rachel enjoying my chai and live concert videos) So this one’s about the music. My music. The kind most people my age don’t listen to. The kind that isn’t in every Instagram reel or sped-up for some 15-second Instagram trauma dump. The kind that came from old aux cords, not algorithms. It’s not a superiority complex, you know. Okay, it is, maybe just a little bit. But mostly it’s because I just don’t relate to the *new* sound. I don’t want bass drops. I want meaning. I want that scratchy, live-recording sound. The kind of music that makes you pause mid-scroll and go “wait, WHAT did they just say?” and then rewind five times because it’s that good. To be fair, I didn’t choose this taste — it kind of chose me. Grew up hearing it around the house thanks to my dad, and li...