it feels quite presumptuous of me to in any way compare myself to a terminally ill cancer patient, but I have to talk about my love for Cytherea the First - or at least her façade. all her talking about suffering and dying prettily struck such a chord with my hateful instinct of losing weight and making myself tiny and cute and elegant to fit an ideal, to have people around me more easily accept my chronic pain and fatigue… not to talk about the long parenthesis of suicidality driven by aestheticism, the plans of poisoning myself in père-lachaise the art of suicide nightgowns and hair curls flying every which where - it just makes me feel, a lot. the truly, deeply earnest “I didn’t want to die”. I ache