I always knew you needed a mild state of sadness to write. I know now that you need it only to be mild.
Between now and this time last year, a bunch, okay maybe 7-8 people at max, asked me why I don’t write this newsletter anymore. They asked me a lot of other questions like why do you never leave your apartment? Why do you never come out hang? Do you even exist irl? Will you let me hit? I mean…you get the gist. And the answer to most of these questions was embarrassingly bland — I can’t, I’m sad.
excerpt from my favorite interview with my favorite girl in the world
It’s honestly disgusting that all that these great sad women had written about going through — is ACTUALLY POSSIBLE to go through! Like WTF? I’ve always admired the sad women in books and movies with a weird sense of envy, but as I feel myself slowly getting close to becoming one, I only want to puke. 🤮
Unsure of whether it’s because the feeling is just so objectively distasteful or because I do not possess the faculty to churn all those feelings into art as all those people did.
I should paint. I should read. I should write. I should do everything society expects of a sexy sad girl or my sadness is a waste. I should always remember that my sadness is to serve. In lieu of the sadness that this world gave you, you now owe them art xoxo
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And if the pressure to write wasn’t enough. I was now feeling the pressure to write — as a SAD PERSON!
Like I have all the ammo man. I have sadness and an audience of a few hundred who love to glorify the (art) coming out of sadness. It’s the perfect recipe for content that sells..so why can’t I just…sell?
I didn’t write because I realized I can only write from a mild state of sadness. The writing will never happen when I’m actually really fucking sad. And turns out, I was in fact, really fucking sad!
I thought my sadness was rooted in my being stuck at home. Then I moved, and suddenly my sadness was rooted in my moving cities. I am now beginning to explore the idea that my sadness is rooted in me 👍
But I also stopped writing because I got exposed to a new realm of incredibly smart people doing incredibly cool things and writing incredibly thoughtful shit and because I thought thots could never be as thoughtful as all the thoughtful things these writers were writing.
But somehow in the middle of all this, I forgot that the last thing I ever intended thots to be was — thoughtful. This newsletter was about everything I have ever advocated and, fight to normalize — mistakes, errors, typos, nonsense, and mediocrity. So I will not try to live up to the identity of someone I’m not (a girl who makes sense)
I realized that somehow in the middle of — oh this newsletter is about only me and not for if and how people consume it — this newsletter became very much about me AND how people perceive me actually 👍
I also realized how not giving a fuck can never be a one-off task. It’s not a one-time life decision like hi guys, starting today I’m a girl who doesn’t give fucks. A girl in the state of no-fucks-given does not stay in the state of no-fucks-given unless consciously chosen to, every day. It’s a daily affirmation. A daily climb up the giant hill of giving no fucks, a small skid down the slippery slope of which, can lead you to — you won’t believe this — actually giving fucks (sometimes even ones that have no takers)
editing kaav: it has struck me that reading this would lead you to believe that I’m a basic girl who probably read that basic book called something like the subtle art of not giving a fuck — when in fact I’m a very quirky girl that reads only super obscure e-books (twitter)
I have just been reminded that I do not write for writers. I write for people who wish they could write but don’t. I do not write for smart people. Smart people have other smart people to read. I write for nutjobs and blatantly mediocre girls who walk like they have main character energy when heaven knows all they feel like is a prop in their own lives.
But I guess I write now. Again.
And like when you welcome someone to your house party, if they have a limp, you ask them to sit, not to dance. I am knocking again at your inbox, with a limp in my leg and a lump in my throat. Sit with me and share some tea. Maybe I will have it in me to dance again.
No like actually. Share some tea, anonymously — here or on my NGL 😜
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I feel seen. attacked. and 278 other emotions I think
angel girl