performative

I wonder if you can actually be happy in the place where you were so desperately depressed? Clawed your way out of, only to return with the same foolishness, same dreams, and that same goddamn ache in your chest that never fades. I don’t know why I’m talking. I don’t know why I’m writing. I don’t know why I’m thinking. I don’t know much at all. I don’t know why I’ve been watching the birds for over an hour now. Can you hear the birds flying around? I’m sure you can.

I bought lemon liquid and ingredients to make lemon muffins later on. To show that I am a good housemate. I don’t bake. I’m not a hands-on kind of girl. My mother used to call me a princess, still does occasionally. I don’t bake, but a good, loveable housemate would bake. Everything I do is performative. I don’t particularly care if the audience enjoys my show or not, believe the lines spilling out of my mouth, if I get burned from the stage lights or lose myself in this character I’ve created, but one thing is certain. I will perform.

I would’ve gotten banana muffin mixture, but (redacted) has said on multiple occasions that no one likes banana bread or muffins. I do. I like banana bread and muffins a lot, but. Whatever. Doesn’t matter. I told (redacted) to grow up.