|vintage skirt and cardigan // boys Hanes tee // seychelles shoes via the loved one|
I've been taking a long hard look at my fucks lately. I know it's cool to act like you don't give a fuck, but I do, I give fucks all the time. And just when I think I haven't got a single fuck to spare, the insecure, people-pleasing theatre kid in me finds a few more.
Fucks are like crumpled old receipts hanging out at the bottom of your purse. They're useless, they get in the way of whatever it is you really need. —like when you just want a bandaid or a piece of gum, and find yourself wading through a fathomless pit of old receipts/fucks—and yet you can't let them go, because there's a little seed of fear that you might need them one day. The old receipts. And the fucks. It's easy to try and hoard paper records of things as it is to try measure every contingency for things you might do. What if I need this for my taxes? What if I need to return it? What if my blog isn't 'sponsor friendly'? What if I offend so-and-so? You can't save it all, and you can't make everybody happy. You can't even make everybody not dislike you.
So this year, little by little, I'm cleaning out my fucks. It's hard. I still give a fuck about censoring myself on the internet in ways that I don't even do in real life.
Your fucks are precious. They belong to you only. Re-evaluate them regularly, don't give them out willy-nilly.
And get rid of those old fucking receipts while you're at it.