No. Calm down. I’m not pregnant. Not now.
Or maybe I won’t at all.

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I know it’s been a while.
I know.

It’s like you just held your vomit very hard in the car and somehow you and your body decided not to vomit even after you hit the ground. The vomit is now sitting inside your body and not being anything else but useless vomit.

You are afraid to throw it up because that brings up the terrible nausea.
But the problem is not solved.

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This week is by far the chillest week ever in my life.
If there has to be a week when I am too sad to do anything, I will definitely choose this week since then I wouldn’t be too fucked to have to put everything together later.

And BAM. Here it is.

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I wasn’t sure how to describe my feeling until Nacho threw out an adjective “vulnerable”.
“Vulnerable” – vulnerable like an abandoned child standing by herself in the middle of the street, clothes stripped into pieces that covers the barely existing dignity.

I thought about my tattoo, saying “let the discipline be your mentor.”
It wasn’t something to regret.
I have not given up yet.

It’s like an egg sitting in a heating water. You never know if the water is meant to boil at the end or providing the warmth like hatching.

It’s the pot of water an egg is sitting in; it’s the ambiguity of being hopeful and hopeless at the same time.


It’s up to you.