I thought slowing down would simplify my life, but instead, I’m finding myself increasingly surrounded by… stuff. Everywhere I turn, objects and artifacts, clothes and books, but most of all, food and drinks.
The fridge looks like I’m feeding an army and staying for a year, but I have to move out of this place next week. Most of the drinks I got for free–it comes with the job–but the amount I’ve accepted is excessive. The drawers are bursting with more farmers-market produce than one person could possibly consume. Scattered across the counter are spices, salts, and condiments, and from place to place, I’m toting a massive box of sauces, vinegars, grains, beans, and other edible remnants of my former life.
This is too much, but it’s what I equate with home and comfort: the place where keep your beer stash and your kitchen supplies; where can make those signature dishes that transport you to a time and place where you had more stability, a crew to gather around your table, where in hindsight you seem happier than you were.
After all, our compulsions stem from the ways our parents and grandparents soothed themselves, epigenetically transmitted. What would comfort our caretakers in turn comforted us, and now we enact the same patterns without even knowing why. My ancestors found solace in massive servings of carbs, secret stashes of chocolate and nuts, lavishly laid tables, and at the bottom of glasses and bottles. So this is where I turn when I’m stressed; as I’m struggling to remember, re-integrate, and rebuild. I don’t know where I’m living next week, I can’t seem to stop overeating or finish a pitch, but at least I know where dinner is coming from.
In the Global North, we also live in a capitalist culture that preaches salvation through consumption from the moment we’re born. The answer is never less, just more of something different; you just haven’t found the right brand, the right drink, the right flavor. It shows up in my food shopping and cooking, as if enough heirloom peppers and bitter lettuce will fill the empty seat beside me; like the right proportion of harissa and ras el hanout will uncover the abuse I endured as a child. I know this, and yet the stuff continues to accumulate around me.
Compulsion and consumption is a replacement for connection: we are trying to fill a human-shaped hole with substances and stuff. Trauma, after all, disconnects you, transporting you from the present and perpetually into the past; reacting to new people and situations like those that once hurt you, keeping you separate. Traumatized parents and caretakers can’t properly bond with their children, so we spend the rest of our life seeking those connections in whatever form we can, using the methods and playing the roles that were demonstrated to us.
Even those who didn’t experience childhood trauma still come up in this separation culture: championing individual achievement, yet only supporting those who replicate the hegemony. We were never meant to live alone in empty boxes, so of course we end up stuffing them with stuff, and stuffing our faces when there’s no one to turn to. Social media is presented as a substitute for human interactions, and while it can help us stay in touch, it’s not the same thing as looking into another’s eyes; as skin on skin. And not all in-person interactions are created equal; as much as I love my industry interactions, they don’t serve the same need as a conversation with someone who truly sees and knows me.
I also know that home isn’t a physical place, but rather, a feeling or a state of being. I know that freedom lies in cultivating that presence in my soul, the thing I can carry with me everywhere. I know the connection needs to start with myself, uniting disparate parts of my past, present, and future in the now.
I know all of this. And still, I long to gather my friends around the table to help me eat some of this food and drink some of those beers.
I spent 250 just to tell you what a horrible piece of shit you are as a person. I love that You're now non-binary meaning you simply just spread your legs for anything that has a pulse. You're a fucking poser. You have absolutely nothing substantial going for you other than the fact you have a warm pussy between your legs, and I look forward to the day you hit your 40s and your wrinkles turn off most of the people that are wanting to fuck you. Your trash that is true and I'm glad you finally understand that. You have absolutely nothing going for you other than the fact that you give out for literally zero. Hookers have more of a reputation because they actually get paid. Please don't have children. Please please please don't have children aside from the tax bearing they'll cause on society. They'll grow up to be like you and that is the last thing we need. I'm glad that you're ugly now and have a bitch haircut, but that still doesn't make you a. Lesbian it just makes you fucking pathetic. You spread STDs to God knows how many people. Me, Rob, probably several others. I don't know who else she spread your legs for, but now that you're a little older, I hope that you at least warn people about the burning fire between your legs before you let them put their dick in you. Done binary and pronouns and all the nonsense are up to is just liberal talk for narcissism and stupidity
You're not a they. You're a woman I think and your pussy seems to be what defines you. So congratulations on that!
My advice would be to not procreate fuck all the random people you want to and get behind the banner of polygamy because sadly that's the best you're going to get. Normal people don't want to worn out piece of pussy for their partner
So your angle of just fucking everyone is probably a good one. I feel bad for both your parents, especially your mom since she's religious and now she has a daughter who's not only a fucking skank bisexual but also polyamorous slut. I'm glad you feel noble in your intentions. There aren't any nobility to have. You're no more than a hooker who is not charging, but I admire your labels that make you seem anything other than that. I hope that pussy is in that as burning as it was when I met you because I'm still shaking this STD. Best of luck you skank bitch.
Hi