The fear of writing into a freshly bought,
fancy looking notebook because you’re afraid of fucking up and ruining everything and you end up never ever using it. You just look at it. Touch it. Smell it. And place it ever so carefully onto your collection of 100 other unused notebooks.
Then there is the boy you can never stop thinking about. Whenever you see his name, it trips you up. Even if it’s one that belongs to many others, even if he belongs to someone else.
You know he is a symbol of your weakness, your Kryptonite. How he rushes in like wildfire and burns through everything you worked so hard to build since he last left you in ashes.
Lesbian does not mean “probably going to hit on you”.
Homosexual isn’t a horny caricature trying to fuck you.
Get over yourself.
Bisexual does not mean “wants to have a threeway.”
Pansexual doesn’t mean ‘fuck everything and anything’.
Asexual doesn’t mean “just never had sex with you.”
Heterosexual doesn’t mean ‘I’m an asshole and bi/trans/homophobic.’