this was supposed to be the summer of slut behavior but instead i’m at Pottery Barn spending $79 dollars on a throw pillow. shopping for home decor is the most sexless thing you can do, no one who’s getting fucked good thinks about the color palette of their kitchen. i miss my apartment in the south, where all i owned was an IKEA bookshelf, a plastic lipstick organizer, and an ugly brown couch that was great for being bent over. now my living room looks like a pinterest board and the only stains on my velvet pink chesterfield are from honey mustard.
a few months ago my witch sister said that she had a vision where i’m “living as my most authentic self” and own a green sectional. i’m like, that’s called being bisexual babe. she said my pink couch represents my self-love era which makes sense because it’s where i online shop and eat enough Act II movie theatre butter popcorn to see the devil. amazing how despite my irregular periods, i’m starting to sound like a wine mom.
throw me in the stockades, but i’m sort of over this whole self-love shit. i’ve done all the face masks, i’ve drank every flavor of prebiotic soda from a champagne flute, and i’ve taken myself out on enough dates that masturbating is starting to feel like an autoerotic thank you for Cheesecake Factory avocado egg rolls. at this point, telling people i’m ~focusing on self-love~ is just a face-saving way to say “i’m lonely as fuck but these $30 soy wax candles that smell like a city i can’t afford to live sure do help!”
being raw and real for once, i think there’s far too much pressure to be fulfilled and happy all by your lonesome these days, especially if you’re a member of the group colloquially known as women. “external validation” has become this taboo, pathological thing, meanwhile our world is set up such that being single is both a social and economic disadvantage. it’s like we’re constantly being bombarded with reasons why it’s bad to be alone, but also expected to make every act of self-expression an uplifting, empowering statement of self-reliance.
to quote a low-budget, underground indie film i saw recently called The Barbie Movie, “we have to always be extraordinary, but somehow we're always doing it wrong.” tbh i was actually not crazy about the movie overall. i never played with Barbies as a kid so the emotional nostalgia was lost on me, plus the script wasn’t my fave. but, i think America Ferrera’s monologue got it right—life as a girl is an exhausting, unending tightrope walk between antithetical expectations, especially when it comes to how we pursue our own happiness. meanwhile, the rest of the world is sitting in the audience below, eagerly awaiting a single misstep so they can justify devouring you. i dream of the day we all fall without a care.
idk, i guess the point i’m trying to make in being a self-love denier is that i’m sick of feeling ashamed to admit that right now i need affection (a stern talking to) from other people (the voluptuous pharmacist who made me feel dumb for asking if i could still drink starbucks on antibiotics) in order to feel a shred of joy. is it such a crime that i don’t find myself interesting enough to be satisfied without anyone else? i thought we decided solipsism was corny.
also i resent how people assume the need for an external source of love comes from either self-hatred or like, this socially ingrained idea that you’re incomplete without a man/partner. every time someone DMs me an instagram infographic about unlearning heteronormative notions of happiness, it makes me wish i could unlearn how to use wifi. why is it so inconceivable that a woman has agency over what she desires? not every choice or aspiration that deviates from mainstream feminism is rooted in some subconscious rejection of it. after growing up an only child, i’m bored with just me. it’s truly not much deeper than that.
plus, the dry spell has me thinking fondly of ex-lovers which is always a recipe for bad poetry and drunk texts i always regret in the morning. i’d much rather be spending my energy going on dates where i cut my tongue trying to seductively suck on a tiny cocktail straw, or laughing in bed with someone new, archiving inside jokes to use for future safewords. i’d even rather be spending my time romanticizing a situationship with someone who fucks so good i forget they talk over me, if it meant an end to my solitude era. i feel most myself when my life collides with another, and i relish all the fun, joyful, fucked up, tragic shit that ensues.
so far all i’ve gotten out of candles and a bubble bath is a PayPal receipt and a rash on my cunt.
-Rachel Elizabeth
"at this point, telling people i’m ~focusing on self-love~ is just a face-saving way to say “i’m lonely as fuck but these $30 soy wax candles that smell like a city i can’t afford to live sure do help!”" is so REAL - i wish i could quote this entire post to myself in the bathroom mirror every morning when the loneliness creeps in a little too hard!!! this was such a beautifully honest piece i'm obsessed
heard. we're not made to be disconnected creatures, and no amount of consumption will change that. love and affection and touch and validation are essential as breath and water. maybe 'self-love' is just capitalism's attempt to make you fill the void left by everything real it has taken away.
here's to fewer things, and more connection. 🌱