so this was supposed to be a very special post about museums, chance encounters, an endless cycle of winning and then losing, and birthdays. it was going to be about birthdays. but then i didn’t write it because i didn’t have time, and i was exhausted and nervous. do you know how nervous i was? i was positively shaking as i walked down the twisting and turning hall, juggling a balancing act of walking slowly but quickly enough, keeping the fear out of my face and removing the quiver from the forced conversation i was having. then i heard the bellow, and i thought, yup, i made the wrong choice. but trundling on, right, because what’s done is done? anyway the point is, i was tired and really scared. so i didn’t write it. i thought i would write it now, upon coming home, because i would have time, and i’d be feeling so much better after a nap. but no, now i’ve decided that i won’t write it at all, because it is likely to end up lame, bitchy, stupid, and above all, moronic. at the Tate four months ago, i met someone judgmental. i met someone more puerile than anyone i have ever known. i met someone who can’t look beyond his own superficiality and can only see the world in black and white. so as i sit here now, i am exhausted and scared. the past four months have drained the life out of me. i find it so strange that i can no longer look happy in photographs and that i have to force the smile into my eyes now. what have i done? truly, what have i done? constantly, i tell myself that i should never judge books by their covers, but increasingly, i find that my visceral reactions are always the most accurate. i can’t be someone i’m not. i can’t be so pretentious. i can’t say stupid things like, “i like thunderstorms because they have character.” i can’t apologize for having said, “… and shit like that.” i just cannot. what do i now? i feel like a hypocrite. i want to swallow everything. all the time traveling… i want to swallow it all.