dress i ordered for my uncles wedding didnt fit, might kill myself

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It is delicious knowing I don't have to travel internationally again before 2023. Just a photo of an aircraft cabin I see online makes me shudder. I could never be an art dealer : G has been in London, Paris, Dallas, Arkansas, New Mexico. Now Miami, then Düsseldorf and Berlin My studio still isn't finished, and I continue to work in the gallery. It takes at least five plays of the demo video D sends of how to operate the building's alarm system before I feel safe disarming it. Once, weeks and weeks ago, I got the key stuck in the lock and the alarm went off. I have come to love my confined space, however. It brings back memories of art school - harsh lighting, the delicate dance required not to knock into things (I do, my favourite "Peace and Quiet" coffee mug, it breaks), listening to rap music raw from my iPhone. Only now, I can reorder the mug immediately Why I didn't rid myself of J the minute he attacked my appearance, I'm not sure. Maybe I still long for mistreatment, or worse, will tolerate mistreatment if there's an ego massage in there too. Or it's just winter, a season made for sitting on chairs with shameful posture texting someone you could take or leave. We talk on the phone too, and I learn this is a person who tells you how he's feeling at all times. He speaks in long sentences and I contribute dispassionate single syllables. Do I want to hear any more Aquarians' theories about life? I think my GP suspects I'm hoarding my meds for an eventual overdose, so calls me in for an appointment. I promise her I just leave packets of them in hotels whenever I travel and run out quicker. Do not assume the sinister when it's really the incompetent. I think she's a good doctor, efficient, generous with her time, has a good memory. She asks if I'm still being creative, and how I'm feeling about my sexuality. I remember then that I had told her I thought I might be gay while she examined my stomach 3 years ago. She asks if I have listened to Esther Perel's podcast, and I can't help laughing, evilly and knowingly, and then all of a sudden sadly. I leave with a number for a good EMDR therapist whom I know I won't call The day is crisp and the wind is light, I bike the distance from Sloane Square back to Whitechapel, something I used to do a lot when I saw my therapist / dietician twice weekly. Now I struggle a little - either my legs aren't as strong or I'm not as okay with punishment. One hopes it's the latter, or that therapy was a total waste of time. I get to my "studio" and eat watching YouTube Shorts, an ugly new habit. I don't see how many more times I need to see Joe Rogan think out loud about the majesty of the Pyramids and how the hell they were built. How many more times Jordan Peterson can explain why women often don't become mathematicians. How many more times Ben Shapiro can feign offence at a teenager on TikTok delineate their pronouns, while also advertising a company that can secure you a stretch of land in Scotland and thus make you legally a "lord" I pussy out of the rainy bike ride home and get the tube with wet, normal people. I am on my fiftieth listen of Kendrick's Mr Morale and still not done with it:

Bitch, are you happy for me? Really, are you happy for me? Smile in my face, but are you happy for me? Yeah, I'm out the way, are you happy for me? Bitch, are you happy for me? Really, are you happy for me? Smile in my face, but are you happy for me? Yeah I'm out the way, are you happy for me?