• where the fuck is my whirlwind romance?
  
  I'm 22 and rude to guys on tinder. It's my pathetic attempt at hiding my insecurities with harsh cleverness. I don't pity myself, but I do dream
  
  and dream I do well. It's about all I do decently. I'm been learning how to play the guitar again. So far I can only play Wagon Wheel and Pumped-Up Kicks, poorly. I have my first lesson tomorrow so, who knows, maybe it will be music that awakens my soul or whatever.
  
  I've been reading like my mind is starving. It's so much easier to disappear into Ender's Game or Percy Jackson and the Olympians. I love children's novels just as much as serious ones. I have about 120 pages of psychopharmacology to read and it's nice to slip into a cheerful adventure. I'm envious of their fictional friendships. I feel incapable of forming the same bonds and it's just nice to live vicariously through characters that find a place to belong. 
  
  My group of friends has never been the most cohesive and lately, we're fragmented by old wounds and purposeful absences. People who once slept in the same bed refuse to be in the same room. And I'm one of them. I make new friends, but honestly, maybe it's not other people that are the problem. I haven't truly connected with anyone in so long. And I'm so insecure that I'm not even sure if the friends that I have are going to stick around. Petty slights, missed invitations, and microaggressions soak our ties in gasoline and I'm always tense in fear of a spark. It feels like a protracted end in some ways, but I haven't given up (as downtrodden as I may sound). I put together plans, I invite people, I show I care. But it never feels like enough. And that's my fault, isn't it? My fault that I'm not satisfied? My fault that I don't know how to ask for what I want or my fault that I'm too cowardly to admit what it is? My fault that I live in fiction and find nothing but fault in reality?
  
  I hate asking myself questions.
  
  I always know the answers
  
  I just never like them.

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