memes i would send to you if we were still talking

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28K views · 2.9K likes | Aman 💯 (Mr Shoutout) on Instagram

January 9, 2024

Hey babe, it’s been a while. Maybe not in human timelines, but definitely in a girl’s world. I know we decided to not talk for a few weeks, but when have I ever played by the rules? So you best believe I am going to exploit the advantage of my distribution and talk to you by sending an email to everyone because I cannot send a text to you.

[Breaking the fourth wall]
Hi cuties, my boy and I are not talking, so I’m going to do what I do with every minor inconvenience in my life — make it everyone’s problem. Take a seat as I embarrass him by snatching the mic, like the quirky main character of a rom-com film, crashing someone else’s wedding. You are all attendees seated at the ceremony. And hopefully, my boy is seated amongst you as well. But I can’t locate him. So I will now expound on the intricate details of our relationship in this public confession, hoping that he will rise and respond by confessing back, before taking me home and making passionate love to me.

For added effect, you can also picture me as the girl who wore white to someone else’s wedding. Honestly, it’s kind of stupid how the westerners make such a big deal about other people wearing the same color as the bride, as if a bride could ever be overshadowed. My sister and I have shamelessly worn not only matching colors with the bride but also 10x heavier outfits than the marrying couple’s immediate family our entire lives, and it has nothing to do with them, it’s just who we are. But because I could never imagine doing this at a brown wedding — fuck it, I actually totally can — I’d just like to not. So to save the ick, so we are doing this on the set of Hallmark film). Okay? Back to scene.

Babe, I've been thinking about a lot of things, but mostly, I've been thinking about you. You've been on my mind a lot. I thought about you when I saw this meme, and the one below it, and the one below that. Even when it rained this Monday morning, I sat by my window, sipping my coffee, thinking about what you would be doing right now. I imagined you might be watching a game, nerding out on a new subject, taking a call, or maybe, just maybe, thinking about me.

I thought about you when you were just a little boy. Yes, I thought about it again. I think about it all the time. I revisited the pictures you sent me, and it baffles me how they still make me cry every time. I love little you so much, it breaks my heart; crwacks my heart.

It’s been a while since the last time you sent me flowers, but I think you would be happy to know that my writing desk has never been without flowers since. In fact, I just changed the water for them right now. Another boy sent these to me. He sent it along with a few cookies he baked. I never know when people give to take and when people give to love. It’s funny that I accepted them. I think you taught me a lot about accepting, babe. He sent me chrysanthemums and dahlias. He didn’t know what flowers I liked, like you do.

I think about your palms, and how they fit two of mine. I think about being a girl, and I think about how much like a girl I feel when I talk to you. I think about boys, and I think about boys with girls. And in the time that I do not think about making love and making money, I think about —babe do not freak out, but — making babies.

It’s actually a little disconcerting, even to me, how much I think about babies, babe. If I were a sub-par meme shared by normies on the internet, I would read but-I-am-just-a-25y/o-baby-myself.

The nurturing instinct in me has been roaring more than ever, babe. I read a thread on DINK (double income no kids) couples on Grapevine, and it made me scoff. I read recommendations advising to direct the nurturing instinct towards activities like pursuing a hobby, caring for plants, raising a pet, or building a startup. But..tsk. I'm too smart to not call myself out for attempting to fill the void in my life with gardening lessons, spin classes, and creating shareholder value. I hate to be scorned by my own sorry self. She is the literal worst. I want a baby. And I want one sooner than ever.

Living a life only for oneself is such an overrated trend, babe. I am running out of reasons to wake up every morning. I thought about it and I realized I am neither my parents' only son nor their only daughter. I am not my siblings' only sibling, and I am most definitely not my besties' only bestie or my situationship's only situation. But to my child, I would be its only mother. For my child, sweet little miracle of earth, dependent on me for its future and sustenance, surely, I would never want to disappear again.

I keep having these violent dreams, in which I’m always saving my mother, from such things as car crashes and dogma, and prejudice and fathers. And I wake up thinking, who will save me? But ah, I ramble. I’ve been quite hormonal. But I’ve been this hormonal for a few months now. Hopefully, I can look back at this phase of my life like wow do you remember when I was 25 and couldn’t stop wanting to have a baby? Yeah, wild! Maybe it’s my luteal phase, maybe it’s another re-run of Girls.

Anyway, I took a tarot reading, babe (aka: get a witch to draw some cards and not listen to what she says while I arbitrarily interpret what each card could mean to me) like I do every time I am looking for answers, and, in yet another of the universe’s cosmic whimsy of happenstance, I saw, yeah what else — a pregnant woman.

The woman seemed to me like she was in her last trimester, pregnant not with child, but with ideas. It made me think of myself; exactly how I approach creation. I go out, fuck with my life and this world, get impregnated with ideas, and keep feeling sick until I have nurtured them long enough in me to give birth to them on paper. But this time, I feel impregnated with an entirely new life. Like I have been preparing and nurturing something inside, still unknown to me. I keep feeling like a new life, new self is about to be born (you best believe I’ve been in labor), and I hope it does soon, because I’ve been sick for so long.

You know how I keep saying I need you, or someone, to tell me what to do, babe? In reality, I just want to hear what I already know myself. Because I’m so scared all the time, babie. I do not believe in myself until my own vision and belief is presented to me through the medium of someone or something else. So I use tarot to help me listen to myself.

memes i made with my own hands

Babe, also, I am fully romanticizing this breakup by the way. I listen to sad songs all day. I even botched my Instagram algorithm to figure what the brown girlies are feeling sad to these days, and now I do my makeup to Ve Kamleya every morning. I listen to it on loop. In fact I am listening to it right now. Nine days into new year and I have already IDed myself as ‘miss yearns-a-lot’ on Spotify wrapped.

But this yearning is getting harder and harder to romanticize. And, oh god, you were right. I do have a lot of time on me now. Time that I do not spend texting with you, or curating a Pinterest board with our wedding ideas. It feels empty to not share every breathing thot I have with another person, and it is a shame that I have to resort to other subpar mediums of communication like shitposting on twitter dot com instead.

Babie, the world is being mean to me again. I feel so lost all the time. The writers never accept me because I joke too much, and the comics don’t claim me because I cannot joke on cue. When I write assuming my audience is as smart as me, I am called confusing, and when I write assuming my audience is as dumb as me, no one takes me seriously. I keep wanting to refrain from explaining myself to people because I have a fantasy that when I die, some people will use Sparknotes (or whatever new AI tool the kids are using then) to write detailed analyses and interpretations of my lore. I keep thinking that it is important for me to die for it to happen though. Important to be dead to be considered a subject worthy of understanding. Posthumous fame and all that. I keep fantasizing that some person will pick up all the crumbs I’ve left with my digital footprint and piece it together as something marvelous. As something I don’t even think I am right now. I keep fantasizing that one day, I will be discovered (diskaavered). A Hidden Gem! but a gem no less. Never hurts to dream.

I thought about being on the internet and I cried a lot about being misunderstood here. But I no longer care if the internet understands me, babe. It is enough if one person does.

I hope you will not freak out when you read this, by the way, babe. You’ve read my newsletter. You know I write about all important people in my life. So how did you even think you would be exempted? In fact, I appreciate that you read my newsletter. I like how you get back to me with your detailed thoughts and feedback on each edition. I don’t know if I’ve ever told you, but the boy before you did not. He never read my blog. I think he also found it a little stupid. I almost considered removing him from the mailing list because I did not want him to think he was dating a stupid girl. But I am a stupid girl only, babe. I do not think it is imperative for partners to be interested in every hobby that the other picks up, especially when the hobbies are as fickle as mine. But shoot me if my hobbies include thrusting my heart out and mailing it for the world to read, I get giddy when my partner is invested in them.

Remember what I told you, babe? It’s always fun to date a quirky girl on the internet until her quirks stop feeding your romanticized interests. Everyone wants to date an artist but nobody wants to be the subject of their sad art. But what am I even supposed to write about? You tell me, babe. How can I think of anything else right now? Are you thinking of other things? What are you thinking of? Actually, no. Don’t tell me. I don’t wanna know.

(Narattor: The girl, in fact, did want to know — everything, and in elaborate detail)

I’m not scared that you will not come back, babe. I’m scared that when you don’t, another boy will. We'll talk for a few months, get to know each other's little kinks and quirks, and just when we start getting attached and contemplating, only secretly, a future together, something will interrupt the feelings again; things such as parental care and master's degrees and career moves; distance, depression, and ambition.

I am so tired, babe. I don’t know how many we’re not meant to bes I have left in me.

I know we had a rule not to even send memes to each other, and I know I have flouted it already several times when you have held up your word. But I’m weak, babe. Asking a girl not to send memes to you is like asking her to not stop and look at worms in the park. I love to look at worms in the park, babe. When we share media, we create a little universe of us on the internet. A digital garden we built for ourselves — a sport I do not understand, music you do not listen to, and memes we both giggle at.

I know our garden is so full that we don't even have space to hold hands and walk around anymore, but it is not easy to see the flowers die.

I miss you, babe. I don’t think we’re meant to be.

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