don't read this if you had/are having a bad day (it'd just make it worse)

I am angry with 24 Gs and 13 Rs. I feel horrible. Tired. Sucked. A huge part of me wants to hold someone, a female, hold her, and cry and weep and be a little boy again. And be the little boy that I really am deep inside. The one buried beneath, covered up by a million sordid layers, the sediments of masculinity that society has taught me, the heaps of hustle culture. But that little boy wants to cry and still wants to rule the world at the same time and he is torn like fabric at the seams. And greatness doesn't care about how anyone feels. 

---

I am playing Up Late by Ari Lennox. Thanks to that slim, light-skinned n*d* model. The song was playing in the background as she str**ped her panties off. Nose-ringed, lion-maned. Goddess. Beauty. Innocent in some way that I am struggling for words. I saved the video. It's few seconds short and perfect. I am playing Ari Lennox on repeat now so I can calm down. Maybe I can be in that strange woman's arms and she'll do strange, happy, guilty things to me. Would I reciprocate? Her profession: Happiness. Pleasure. Mine is toil and heart-clenching work; pain; I am struggling to breathe, sleep-deprived, I feel like I am slowly spiraling down into a sinkhole like throwing up into the sink and watching it whirl around and around and down.

People will tell you to keep your sanity while you're climbing to heaven on a rickety stairway but isn't that insane? How can you be sane while doing insane things?

Maybe, I'd find a way to do this, do all this and be "balanced" and happy. But all I ever want is in front of me, beyond this work. I can't just be happy. I am not a little girl skipping ropes and painting pink into her lips. I can't just be happy. I am not happy. I am very very unhappy. I want something. I can't be happy unless I achieve it. 

If I don't, I am doomed forever or something like that. 

---

You're reading this: I don't know whether to ask you to be kind or to forgive my kvetching. I am stopping myself from editing this. I wrote it on my phone and I have gone through it too many times. So many things jab out of the page and stab me in my eye, like jagged shards of glass. Depressing, embarrassing, defeating. I might just shut down this newsletter if I am being too worried that people who know me read this. Then start an anonymous one. Everything from scratch. I feel better now, btw. 

Should I even post this anyway?