A pessimistic essay.

Picture this, you wake up, you get ready, you don’t have breakfast because you spent all your time GETTING ready, but if you prioritize vanity, then you can handle hunger. You can be starving, but don’t let anyone see you without eyeliner.

You're on your way to work, it’s raining, one of your mixes is playing on the stereo

It has an old-looking picture for cover art and an unrelated title that sounds incredibly specific yet odd at the same time.

You stop for gas because you forgot to fill it up last night, while you were out picking up groceries and then driving around because you feel bad sitting at your couch at home, but right now you’re running late, and it’s nobody’s fault but yours.

You find yourself drifting through the wet streets, the music has changed now but you never really noticed it, you're so numb to your own music because you frequent the same playlists, the same songs, the same artists, out of comfort and maybe fear. Now a cowboy with a black mask and a red hat sings for your ears

“Cross my heart, now I hope to die”

Before you know it you’re already sitting on your desk, looking out the window and wondering when things will be different. You’re supposed to be grateful, you’re supposed to be at the very least happy, but you’re not. Your face mask already hurts your ears, the uncomfortable chair makes you sick, but it’s odd you see, the chair manages to be horrifically uncomfortable and somewhat decently comfortable at the same time, but the color? It’s the ugliest orange you have ever seen in your entire life. The horrific keyboard will be the bane of your existence for the remainder of the day, hell even your headphones hurt. While you fight to stay awake, focused, you also try really hard not to give up. You can’t wait for the next time you need to use the restroom so you can stretch your legs and look at yourself in the mirror, while you try to smile. Coming back from your breaks is torturous, you want to simply drive away and never look back.

For a second you confuse “tedious” and “empty “ for “meaningful” and “satisfying”

All the boats sail away, while you sit on the pear as the rain falls down on you.

As water goes down your throat, your anxiety rises.

Inclusivity means nothing here, you’re just in a different club, and you were never invited.

Cisters welcome!

They sanitize their hands of whatever they touch:

Truth, feelings, emotions, passion, they all mean nothing when the garbage you write turns into a tiny blob of ideas that make a bunch of people laugh or feel falsely related. You're a cog in the machine and you keep spinning because they keep paying you.

It makes you wonder: “Are you cut out for this?” What does it even mean to be “cut out for something”? Nobody is going to answer because nobody around you cares, and you’re so embarrassed to ask, so you don’t.

Your nail polish is chipping away, your eyeshadow looks a little smudged, your tights are sadly ripping every single day, your dark roots slowly start to show, days just blend with one another.

“Is it time to start rebuilding communism?” Asks the person in the parking lot, sitting in their car with the door wide open, as they see you leave.

You don’t say anything, just smirk and move up your elbows in a sign of confusion, as you roll up your window and drive off. While you do so, people turn their heads, not because it’s you, but your car is slightly noisier than the others, and it’s filled with stickers.

Normally to them you’re just another human being, some might even acknowledge you are a woman, that is until they can hear your voice, then you’re slightly below them. People are intrinsically inclined to respect or protect a person they find appropriately fitting or aesthetically okay. But once they hear the unfitting tone and your body is filled with anxiety, that is when you’re supposed to stop caring. A year or so of therapy should have paid off by now, and it has, but you’re just not there yet. Your therapist probably doesn’t even like you either.

You have once again been defeated, you’re hungry, tired, and the leftovers on the fridge, the same films, and long rides are not going to make it better.

Blink and you’ll miss it, it’s midnight, and you’re still no one.

You’re still sad, and you’re still defined by the things that you own, the things that you want, and the things that you wear.

Why are you so cold? So afraid of the light? You’ve already seen the nothing, you’ve already closed your eyes, why are you so scared then?

They say that the universe has a way of taking care of us if we don’t ask for much, or plainly ignore it. Respect goes a long way, but if there is something or someone out there, they don’t truly care.

Do they? Says who? Who even says that?

The guy in the snakeskin shoes? The girl with the bob blonde hair? Or was it the one with the mask?

Or the girl with the pink velvet lips that hide underneath her face mask? How do you know they’re velvet pink? People end up being who we want them to be.

Maybe you’re wrong, maaaybe it’s just the girl on the tv, in that show you saw the other day, you can’t really tell, and I’m pretty sure you don’t even remember.

It matters though, thoughts and things, questions like that one, but it just can’t be resolved right now, your thought.

“Pink socialism and couch-bound depression: A letter” Coming up next year to your google drive folder.

Ring a ding ding, time to go work at the shit factory. Opening your eyes and sitting at the edge of the bed is probably the toughest task of the day for you. The bed feels like it is swallowing you, pulling you back into a reality where you don’t belong. But the light cuts you in half, it punches you in the face, and it treats you like one of the hateful assholes you met at the club the other night.

But now it is time to do your brows properly, don’t forget your eyeliner, wear your expensive earrings, and keep your blazer in hand.

It’s showtime.