(I typed the title with my eyes closed).
If you could live anyone else’s life, whose would it be?
Most likely not.
Why would anyone want to live anyone else’s life, without any control over the next decision, whether it be what to wear or what to drive?
Or why would anyone look at other people’s social media accounts and live vicariously through them?
These are all mistakes I am prone to making.
It feels good for a little bit but quickly unwinds into feeling… Like someone’s punched you in the stomach and ran off with your wallet.
You don’t know what that feels like?
You can always look at your ex’s new partner’s social media and experience what I’m talking about.
Though I wouldn’t recommend it.
Especially if their new partner’s way hotter than you are.
It’s like, Whoa, honestly, there’s no way I could compete with that.
I’d probably be all over that person if I were gay.
Which I’m not.
But I probably would be.
I don’t blame him for getting over me in what seemed like a matter of hours.
I’ll be ok.
I’ll just roll over in this bed thing I’m having trouble getting out of and blog about it on my blog that got a pageview a couple days ago.
It’s a good thing, however.
This shortness of breath and dizziness.
I mean, let’s say just for example, I had been planning on custom-ordering some random person a gift to send it anonymously to them, but then I see how happy they are without me… There’s really no point in pursuing that idea.
The gift would be taken as a joke.
It’d be dangled and mishandled by all sorts of stander-bys who happened to be there that day.
I wouldn’t be there to see it, but my heart would somehow feel it.
It’d break all over again.
It’s like my friend said once, the person who stayed is always the one who loved most, and as a result, also the one that hurts most.
Maybe I’m being too hard on myself.
I’m feverishly sick, I have a pounding headache, my throat burns, and my boss keeps texting me by mistake.
Plus I have 70 photos to retouch by last Sunday and at least five loads of laundry.
I know what I need.