Muse


All of last year I was berating myself for always loving people with a tinge of obsession. I came to the conclusion that it is not right to love like that. You erase the person and make the story of the person bigger than they actually are. Of course, nobody lives up to the story you make about them in your head. (But my mind retorts: Well, I do live up to the stories that people make about me! Bcz baby, baby, baby, I’m your man!)

Anyway, the compromise I came up with, because I remain an obsessive person, is that I could channel this madness in fan-ship. I truly get high while cheerleading or staning. It is a socially-approved madness, that only annoys people who know you. So you will hear me gushing about how I am in loOove with a certain celebrity from time to time. I keep adding more to the list, giving each of them a separate but equal pedestal. I have undying love for all of them, and I will frequently wax poetic about their genius and charm.

I have been thinking about whether it is sexist to objectify someone for the purposes of art. Like, if I was a man, it would be seen as problematic to project so much idealism onto the idea of the woman. I have been reading Urdu poetry and sometimes, I am taken aback and wonder how messed up the whole genre is, with so many men professing unrequited love and the lover’s voice is absent. But I also enjoy it thoroughly because I am the same monster, only assigned female.

This led me to another realisation: I write only about my muse(s).

Simping is requisite for creativity! It is so un-feminist of me but I need to obsess to write. For the longest time during this prolonged writer’s block, I had chained myself from ever writing about him if I had to heal; and also my ex had distaste for my obsessive ways. So in trying to be rational, I let go of the fuel that drives me: fantasizing about my muse.

I think all this while, I have been waiting for someone who enjoys being written about, who would delight in it, even if it took mean turns, or if I remoulded him into something shinier. (Would he dare to live up to it? I guess it is bound to be a downhill journey.)

Anyway, what I have realised is that I want to be irrational and obsessive. The price of being rational is too much, and I refuse to be that dull. Even if it is only for short-lived affairs, so be it. I will make it eternal in secret. I guess, I am condoning the monster for the sake of art!

Calling truce with crazy,
tame shewolf.

PS: This month, I have been obsessing over Ali Sethi and calling it “Urdu language immersion.”

Boundaries? what’s that.


Then, I wouldn’t be overwhelmed by people and need to have reclusive breaks. Or reach a saturation point where I scream, “ENOUGH”

And why do I do that? I don’t like to be rude to people and take a u-turn to being alone. But I keep finding myself in situations that I can’t bear one more quirk.

I think the root may be that I get shocked that someone else is not as accommodating or caught up about me as much as I am with them. I am all about on-going consent with every person all the time. After a point, I get tired because there is no release space for me. and I find myself in these situations over and over again.

My other analysis is that I am such a encouraging, people pleasing yes-man that I meet anxious abusive nutcases that really stretch my limits. If there is one thing I want to put a stop to is meet new people who are predisposed to anxious thinking. I would want my chill to meet other chill people, and not soothe non-chill people. Of course, everybody needs a break from anxious people. They fucking overwhelm everybody around them and never develop coping mechanism well-adjusted for social situations. I always thought anxiety in people is a phase but apparently it is a welded-in personality trait.

[This became quite an anti-anxious people rant. Hahaha..]

If only I learn to make boundaries. But if you asked me, what makes you tired? or what do you really not want to do? I still couldn’t point out. I don’t mind anything till I start minding it. There is a switch flip, and I am out. I wish I had a list of behaviours/needs that I should have a boundary for but I don’t.

I think I can tolerate any behaviour if I believe it is a temporary mood that is justifiable. But if temporary moods become climate patterns, then I realise that I am stupid and I have to get out of this terrain.

What can I do better? What are the smaller boundaries that I can have so I don’t have to run away?

Perplexed,
tame shewolf.

Looking for alternates


Most of my childhood and early teenage years were spent trying to find perfection outside of family. I would want an alternate to replace my family members, and friends even.

I would dream of being understood or expressing myself louder in a new setting. Of good uncles or aunts who are open for argument. Of friends who just get it. Of course, imagining a different set of parents.

I slowly had to just accept that there is no alternate parents or a family that I can get. Maybe I set myself to disappointment, when I replaced teachers to be that kind of intellectual guides. Or found adults to vent to, but was disheartened to see that everybody is human.

[Now when I see my teenage students being kind to me, I am always shocked thinking I didn’t like seeing human frailty in adults. So, grateful! Of course, had my fair share of mean students but then I know better to not take it personally.]

I thought I had stopped looking for ideal versions of thing in people, and just being grateful for whatever version of a person that I come across. I don’t look for ‘soulmates’, just someone easy to talk to and be with. But there is always a shadow of perfectionism lingering that keeps me alienated.

I guess, this is me reminding myself to let it go.

It’s quieter now,
tame shewolf.

Tiny tragedies that add to the despair


When I am depressed, the big things do not affect me whatsoever. I will plough through the day and do everything that is expected of me, without any grumpiness.

But what will break my back is if I spill water on my quilt and I have to clean that up.

Yes, that is my tiny tragedy.

It is weird what I will sulk over and that is when I am know I am depressed.

  • The internet is slow and the funny show online is buffering.
  • The lid of the bottle/jar doesn’t open.
  • I have to take a bath but can’t decide what to wear.
  • I can’t find words to drive my point.
  • I can see someone being nice to me but feel a dissociation to it.
  • I tore off a button or something.
  • I have made three typos in a row.
  • I dropped my spoon which adds to my chore. (basically my klutzy behaviour becomes overwhelming to bear)
  • I have a low score on Scrabble, or even Tetris (which I stopped playing bcz it was a foolproof test of how bad my concentration is on that particular day).
  • I write a terrible sentence, and I don’t even know how to make it better.

These things can bring me down for an hour or so. I don’t even think that is worth saying to someone, “Look, this made me sad today.” I mean, I couldn’t without making it a joke. And then I don’t like that I made a joke of it to seem “not weird.”

Actually, listing this made me laugh. So maybe, I am over November blues already.

Mostly inconsolable,
tame shewolf.

PS: I did spill water on my quilt, just when I was going to write a post on loss.

I cleaned it. I sulked. I taught a class like a nice person. Here I am, in no mood to write my intended topic. Laaife!

Could I allow myself to write fiction?


Over the years, I have made so many promises on the blog. I have waxed optimistically about how I am a changed person, how I will be a prolific writer, a writer who will write and not think about how difficult it is to write. I have cried bitterly in words about how I am suffering a creative block and how it is just a phase. I have repented on my knees for the monster-police in my brain that stops me from writing.

If someone did this to me outside of me, I’d shoo them away. The truth is I am my own bad boyfriend. I don’t lie to myself; all I am is evasive. I will write the poetic apology but not the sincere love letter. Isn’t it just easier to beat yourself up than keep promises?

Recently I read that it is self-care to keep promises to yourself. This has been a mean realization because the only person I can postpone is me. My life takes meaning only if I live for others. For myself, I wouldn’t (couldn’t) even get up from the bed. I would be okay if it all ended for me. I care two hoots. It is a mix of contentment for what has been and a resignation bcz I am tired despite everything.

The only thing I want, if I must continue to exist infinitely, is to not be a doomed worker. So, all I do is rebel against bad workplaces or create my good working conditions in the little agency that I do have.

What else can I want for myself? Maybe some silliness and play. Things I always indulged in to amuse myself. So even if it lacks skill, I treasure it because I made it! Like we did as kids! So experimentative with genre and subject, and blinded with happy pride!

Guess what I really want to say is that I am going to attempt writing with the many online writers raring to take on that November project.

I am still afraid of writing a story. Lest, I psychoanalyse myself. Lest, all the feelings I want to dust off come out. Lest, I unravel. Confessing the truth is easier than fictionalising it. How. Why. What. I am not sure what is at play here. I wonder how my brain can muster more shame for writing fictional semi-autobiographical work compared to writing confessional angsty trash.

Anyway, maybe I will be brave enough to attempt it, or sober enough to write here regularly for a month, so that I have something playful I did despite how angsty it seems for a 28 year old to be writing like this—

November found me sad. What can I say?
tame shewolf.

When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin 
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?

~”The Lovesong of J Alfred Prufrock”, T S Eliot

I am a diarist


I have decided I am not a writer.

I am not a writer. There is so much pressure to just show up on the page every day and god damn write. I cannot. I am a rebel, and if I have to, I just won’t. Even if the “have to” has been decided by me! I have to trick myself to write more. I was in the pursuit of “flow”. That once when I am done with my world-building, the chapters will write itself. Or at some point, I will be able to write more than 500 words a day. Or some day, I will be so engrossed in my creation that I will forget the world.

Well, that’s not happening to me. I have realised I don’t have the stamina or the self-belief to drown myself in me.

I am not a journalist. I read such good opinion pieces or well-researched articles all the time. People tell me I could do it, or rather, I should do it. But I god damn won’t do unpaid research and write that beautiful essay if it is not an assignment. That kind of work has to be a “have-to”.

I am not a blogger. As in, I don’t blog with the SEO terms in mind, and try to climb my way up to be a respected blogger with followers who read them regularly. I am not topical. I don’t have mass appeal. I am not that committed to this blog in the sense where I want to create my own brand personality. I really don’t see why someone stops by this blog either. If you are reading this, it is because I asked you to, you are curious about me, or already adore me. The only place I publicize it now is on Twitter. So there is nothing I want to make out of this website. It is just a happy feeling to have a website you call your own on the internet.

It must be clear now that I am very unambitious.

I am not a memoirist. I mean that is an art in itself. I don’t really tell you about the people in my life. I don’t narrate it in a way that has an essence driving the story forward. I am not locating myself in this time period of the 21st century and the shit we have been going through in 2020 either. This blog is so apolitical most of the times; it is unlike me!

I am a diarist. This stream of consciousness bullshit is my schizz. This is the creativity I can muster. I journal incessantly as a way of therapy. I definitely recommend it to everyone too. I also write so that I purge the things deep within me so that I can escape the police in my head. I allow myself stream of consciousness writing because this gives me a sense of flow. Not really, flow. But I don’t stop because I have nothing to think about. Because if I have nothing to think about, I will write exactly that. This may not be art. May not be relevant to even me after some time. It does make me cringe after I am past this phase, but I still cherish it. There is no technique to this (except for the basics of structuring).

I am leaving bread crumbs to make sense of who I was and what I have become, and what I want to be. I worry if I ever lose my mind (which is my biggest fear), I could trace myself back. The eternal quality of words…, I value it but I couldn’t for the life of me try to imitate or aspire for it. I don’t expect my writing would be eternal or even useful! I really selfishly do this for me. I am hoping that it mutates into something that is valuable. But even if it doesn’t, it is fine with me.

Writing diary entries have always been life-affirming. I hold on to that.

Signing off like a typical diarist,
tame shewolf.


PS: Stephen King writes 6 pages daily. That bastard.

 

Daydreams


I do catch myself indulging in wishful thinking sometimes.

I once read Rana Dasgupta’s book Solo, and that book haunts me. I was so impacted by the book’s structure itself. It had divided itself in two parts– the first was the life, and the second was the daydream of the character. Both were so beautiful. That book made me realise that we cope with our lives in daydreams.

But even though I understand that fact thoroughly, I am only recently internalising it. Daydreaming or wishful thinking evokes a lot of guilt in me. I feel stupid because I am being unrealistic.

I am afraid that if I start dreaming I am deluding myself. How can I aspire to be an artist? Indulge in art that gets paid? How can I call myself a writer when I am still held ransom by my moods? Why should I as an “independent” woman continue to hope for companionship? I am cringing as I write this. I am definitely more responsible and stronger than that. Am I not?

I hate being all feelings. Daydreaming definitely feels like “no brain”. So, then even in my own head, I resist reaching a thought that exposes what I lack. It is pointing out what I could want, but it is impossible. If I indulge in it, I am confessing that I still want that impossible even though the realities don’t lead to that direction.

In short, I was afraid.

The first time I articulated it in my journal, I had to take a step back. I see dreaming as weak? That’s pretty harsh. Don’t we cope with our lives in our dreams?

I want to have more audacity than I do now. A little bit of delusional thinking would do me good. If you want to continue living life, not just surviving it, you are forced to be an optimist. There is no need to have a naysayer in your own head. Let the outside world do it if it must. But just maybe, the outside world doesn’t see your dream as a delusion either.

Why not dream?
tame shewolf.


PS: This whole time my mom was crushing on a Korean actor after watching a romcom TV series, and I told her to indulge herself in daydream about love because what is the damn harm? That’s the point of entertainment. Clearly, I preach first and then practice.)

Of hard exits


I recently got a whole speech on how I should not hard exit from people. So for the sake of argument, the “wise man” was upset about how sudden and harsh it can be. That things don’t have to end, they could just fade into oblivion, and what is the point of a hard exit after all?

It really put me in a spiral of reflection. I didn’t like it. Was I doing something wrong by cutting people? I know people can change, but why must I sit through it if it is making me suffer irrationally too? I felt a lot of guilt because my hard exit is usually preceded by a discussion/confrontation/intervention, and if that doesn’t work, I bid farewell. I am out.

The “wise man” accused me of doing this without feeling guilt about the wreckage I caused, because I had a discussion. I brought up the issues. But what is the point, he argued. Times would just resolve them or make the times seem lighter in the distance. You could just hang around, and not really say goodbye.

There are two reasons I may make an hard exit: One, I have had enough.  Two, all diplomatic ways to deal with it have failed. But I still felt guilty.

Serendipitously, the next day, I watched Ben Platt sing,

“If you have to hurt me, hurt me once
If you have to end it, get it done
You have all these choices, I have none”

And, I was like— Thank you Ben Platt. That’s what I would want. Hence, that’s what I do.

I can’t for the life of me prolong the torture. If I know that it is a phase, I will obviously wait it out. If I believe that this is a pattern of abuse that this person has no intention to get over any time soon, I feel like the best thing to do is to leave. I don’t want to just stand by and be supportive of self-destructive ways. I used to think that my friends who have a stupid patterns that they repeat on others, they would not do it to me. They’d keep me safe on a pedestal from their madness. But it is untrue. You become witness and victim to the madness.

I am not a person that gets angry often. Even when I get angry, I talk about it. I want a sincere discussion. But then if the person feigns ignorance, or throws up a defense, or unleashes tantrums on me.. I can’t put up with it anymore. I have also had hard exits that have been mutually agreed upon, like, when I know that the bitch is a Nazi to me, and I am the Anarchist to them.. there is no reconciliation. That is not a phase. (Both labels are true for both of us. Lord, forgive me, I have kissed a Nazi. </3)

I am not trying to avoid responsibility. I am responding to the suffocation I feel when I can’t express myself truly. If I have to tone down myself because the person is volatile, and it is not temporary, the why must I persist? It is an energy-sapping relationship. I am not trying to avoid the wreckage that my departure may cause. I don’t block, I just say “Bye FOR SURE”. I am open to the people I have left to confront me when they can articulate it, if ever. I am still open to helping them if they need me. I just can’t be the shoulder to cry on, or the person who they hold on to as a crutch.

So the hard exit is not an expression of anger or punishment. It is the need for my closure.

I have also realised, as a writer… (I will double down on the imposter syndrome and say—) as a prolific writer, I like neat ending to stories. I mean, the door is not shut forever. But I can’t god damn linger. I know life is not a well-edited movie. There are times that just extend to a painful degree. Memories merge and make new meanings. But I genuinely imagine that each person has a story to tell, and people walk into our lives as characters for a season or a reason.. (is this a poem?). Then they may leave, fade in time, move to the background of the narrative and not be the plot-movers. But even for those characters in our life, I want a closing conversation that the characters can have with each other. I just need that. Maybe it is selfish. Maybe I don’t deal with grief well, and this is my way of processing relationships gone sour. I mean, I see myself as a  side character who wants an exit, and a graceful one that makes sense. Not something that becomes suddenly inarticulate and is unexplained. I am not trying to make a well-edited movie out of life.

But I definitely want good stories to tell about the people I have met! And aren’t limbos the worst?

 The prolific writer,
tame shewolf.

Woman La La La


Prompt:
“I want to hear about how it is to live as a bio woman for you”
~ Jane

Bio woman sounds like a bad word because I don’t feel like a bio-woman most of the time. But there are some physical things that remind me that I have been assigned female due to the body parts that I have. And though I have questioned gendered constructs, I have never really questioned my gendered body. So, writing this felt a bit weird, but I get why it can be important to reflect on this. Women with vaginas have a weird relationship with their bodies too. There is shame/guilt. There is discovery or disassociation.

Brace yourself for some ⚠️super-confessional shit⚠️.  Please skip if you will be embarrassed for me. Confession is my writing style, so…  ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Breasts

I think I have already spoken about how I saw my breasts during puberty here. I  am sure there will always be more to excavate if you think about it. I was embarrassed about having small breasts initially, but now I am more intimidated by big breasts. And I don’t know how I would assert being queer with huge breasts. Also, I think about how I like to be a bit invisible and anonymous, so big breasts definitely make you hypervisible and I would hate that. Now, I am much more comfortable with my breasts.

⚠️Superconfessional shit– My breasts were not part of self-pleasure until like last year! I think participating in the #identitty project did help after all. I do not actively still know how to be super proud of my breasts, but it was a learning lesson anyway.

I feel like your parents teach you to be embarrassed about your breasts and always worry about covering up. It is so ingrained this rapey way of looking at your own body. Feel sexy, but not too much. That’s such a weird balance to maintain.

Uterus et al.

Contrary to the majority opinion of women with uteruses, I feel happy during my menstruation cycle. I think I associate it with the relief I feel after the week of mood slump due to PMS. Also, when the period is late, then the mood slump continues for longer which is the most terrible for a depressive person like me. I cannot escape the fatigue of a mood slump even in the most optimistic of mental states.

But I manage the periods well! I feel like I take care of my body and have to monthly because of it. I love to update my period tracker app. I guess, it is a weird joy of gender confirmation for someone like me who feels boyish most of the time.

Menstrual cups have been a huge blessing too. I hate sanitary napkins. I haaaaaaaaaaaaate them. Even when I feel lazy sometimes with the menstrual cup, I remember the rash and the cloth stains that a pad entails. So, to avoid that ordeal, I take up the slightly longer ordeal of menstrual cups. It is great to be on periods when you feel dry and can ignore it for the most parts! Also, for a boy like me, it is the movement of manspreading that I value most that menstrual cups afford. Thank god for its discovery right around when I had control over my money. (My mom’s first reaction to it was conservative and also slut-shaming but luckily, I rebelled and took a risk that paid off).

Vagina

Menstrual cups also fucking taught me so much about my vagina. The amount of research I did on this was crazy. I still couldn’t visualise it but if you told me to draw a rough diagram of how a vagina looks like from the inside, I think I could draw it pretty well. Some people live their whole lives not really exploring their bodies because there is so much shame attached to it. But for the sake of comfortable menstruation, I learned something!

⚠️ Superconfessional shit: This may seem like a weird trajectory but I had had sex first. Then the next year, I started using the menstrual cup. Then, after another year, I started masturbating! This is actually quite reasonable of girls really depend on guys to help them figure out their bodies. That’s stupid because they too don’t know shit. But then after I realised people with penises are on the same boat as me, I took more initiative to discover the secrets of the mysterious vagina. So, menstrual cup obviously is the more scientific, nerdy way to start that journey then. 

Clit

Then, finally, you reach the clit! I have a vague teenage memory of trying to masturbate and the pleasure was so strong that I was afraid to touch myself again.

When I became braver later, I just couldn’t match what I had imagined. There was a disassociation to overcome. I could just keep trying and trying and nothing would happen. I have watched Feminist Youtube videos on how to get into the mood, read comic strips about how to do it. Nothing. I just had to persist. I think by this time, I also had a dildo, but it didn’t help shit. I even thought what if I didn’t have a clit and I will be barred from this amazing experience of multiple orgasms that women have.

Finally, when I conquered the tiny Everest, I was elated. I felt free. I felt like I will conquer sex like a beast now. That didn’t happen. Because it is still dependent on the vibe with the other person. But still, we will be proud of the baby steps we’re taking in getting to know each other’s bodies I guess.

⚠️ Superconfessional shit: Isn’t it the best depression medicine ever? I could have salvaged some teenage sanity if I had pursued this adventure earlier.

I mean, I can write a whole more provocative thesis on the Magic of the Clit but I’ll move on.

XY chromosome

Who the fuck gives a shit to trace gender at that level? Transphobic people, that’s who.

Being seen as female

Again, in the last five years, I must have taken up the label of “genderqueer”. It felt like a better explanation of myself. I could explain why my expression to be not so “feminine” is more than just internal misogyny. It is not just the hatred at being disrespected when coded as female. I also am incapable of performing femininity. I feel like a fraud in a costume who is trying to doll up, which is not a comfortable skin to be in.

I don’t like being seen as female but I know I am because my genderqueerness is not gothic rebellious or confusing. It is just plain. Like I said, I prefer invisibility. It is not trying to be too boyish nor too girly. It is a mismatch of things. So, I feel uncomfortable when somebody reminds me I am a woman. I feel watched and I can’t chill in public spaces, even if I am the only person on the bus or at the station. I am expected to know everything related to household chores, which I have never volunteered to do ever. I will help if you ask. But I refuse to be seen as an efficient expert at it. I definitely can’t dress up so I hate office-HR-celebrations which decide the dress code according to gender. It sucks so bad. I hate dressing up because I have not found clothes which feel like “me”.

I think I know exactly my dress sense is but the world is not nudist enough for that shit!

10 Ways Celebrities Are Wearing a Bra as a Shirt | Who What Wear

I mean, this is my gender expression. Can’t wait for when this becomes the norm and we are okay with all types of bodies in this world.

The truth is I don’t hate my femininity either. I am just uncomfortable to be just one gender. Even if someone boxed me into a more masculine role, I would just rebel against that too. I like men who can be chill about gender themselves bcz there is a sense of freedom in breaking these arbitrary rules of presentation. Gender truly is a performance of self-expression, and that expression (for me, at least)  is moody. So, I just cannot choose one thing as my permanent gender forever and ever.

I am glad that I am not finally confident in calling myself genderqueer. I used to feel like an imposter (bcz I benefit from being coded as cishet automatically) but then life has only confirmed what I already know to be true for myself. So even if someone accuses me of being “just a girl”. I will just shrug it off. I don’t have to prove anything to anyone.

 

Queer Free!
tame shewolf.


PS: The title is a Harry Styles song because I am in love with that boy and the chorus was playing in my head while writing this.

Who wants to be a kid, anyway?


“Whoever said that childhood is the happiest time of your life is a liar, or a fool.”
― Carlos Ruiz Zafón, The Midnight Palace

For as far back as I can remember, I have always wanted to be a grown up. Now that I am a grown up, I am thrilled! The only thing that makes me apathetic sometimes is how much intentional care my body needs now. But other than that, it has been great to be an adult!

I get why someone would dislike being an adult or miss childhood. You want to be protected and carefree under the benevolent authority of your parent. You don’t want to be responsible for every small little thing or the big things too. You don’t want to work, and get your soul sucked out like the adults do.

I get all this hypothetically. But, I am not convinced. You want to live a carefree life, but under rules laid down by someone else? You don’t want the power that comes with the responsibility? You are okay with facing the consequences of other people’s mistakes? You don’t want to do a nonsense job, then blame capitalism, not adulthood.

What I hated about childhood is dependence on adults for everything. E.V.E.R.Y.T.H.I.N.G.

So, the first time I discovered that adults are untrustworthy liars is during the vaccination phase of childhood. Approximately, I was less than 6 years old. I am the oldest among my cousin, and I have two more cousins younger to me. My parents were discussing in Tulu the number of vaccines left. But told us that we are going to the doctor to get our weight checked?!!! and I am telling my cousins, nooo, they are lying and I don’t want to go. My sister was the first one to be injected, and when she started crying, we all started crying. So basically, I was right and my cousins were stupid.

You know what would have been best. If they just told me why the injections were important to be taken, and it would pain for some time but it will be okay and that the doctors would be nice about it. I would at least trust the adults for telling me exactly what would happen, and maybe even believe in god, bcz everything they said actually did happen. HAHAHA..

I try to piece together what kind of a kid I was, sometimes. But I can’t remember already.

I see my friends regressing into child-like behaviour to escape some pressure they imagine or to allow themselves to have fun. There is also a need to blame every anxiety to a hurt inner child. Not to minimise the pain, but surely it is about time you rise up for yourself. Parent your inner child rather than destroy everyone in sight because your inner child can’t handle reality. Clearly, that is an abusive behaviour you’ve learned as a child whose tantrums are pandered to.

The only time I miss childhood is when I see kids run and explore spaces with joy. I want to believe that I still have a sense of wonder for things. But I definitely would like to run around and assert myself in spaces more naturally, like kids do. Then again, I don’t even have the energy for that anymore.

I have grown so old, so old.. I will wear my trousers rolled.

“He didn’t want to play football. He wanted to be told the truth.”
― John Boyne

Been precocious,
tame shewolf.


PS: You can’t excuse the shit your inner child resorts to all your life. Grow the fuck up.