The Extra Version of Me

I genuinely like myself - my body, my brain, my personality, my opinions, my interests and skills. But I have been around me for a long, long time, and I don't really have many secrets left for myself to discover. I have lost my novelty. I'm comfortable. I easily change sizes to fit myself.

Tonight I cooked dinner for someone who didn't come home. She left me for Marvel.

I watched a horror movie by myself.

I did not the slightest stitch of housework (although I'm going to, because clutter is starting to bother me), and I didn't feel the slightest bit judged.

I don't hate being alone. I'm not afraid of being alone, even after Mercy Black (2019). But sometimes I really want to talk, and right now that desire to talk to someone is flailing around like a fire hose, even though if I did have something specific to say, this post would be a lot more enjoyably concrete.

I am not enjoyably concrete. I'm squishy, like this post. (Has sudden image of gelatinous bollard - discards immediately in great Freudian panic).

Big Finish and Dishes it is.

Maybe I'll have something important to say next time.


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