So there’s this thing that a number of lifestyle bloggers are doing called “Things I’m Afraid to Tell You.” We’re just trying to keep it real. Here goes.

  • I cry a lot. I mean, at least once a week (therapy drags it out of me), but often more than that. It’s really a lot. It’s been rumored that there’s something going wrong in my brain, so now I’m on a handful of neuropharmaceuticals. They’re sort of helping, but, still, you know, the crying.
  • I’m terrified about leaving college. I know I have another two years, but the idea that eventually they’ll make me leave makes me want to dissolve onto the floor.
  • Other people are more capable, accomplished, and interesting than I am. This scares me. I’m really jealous of almost everyone else at Brown, and give almost no weight to my own accomplishments.
  • I moved out of my room earlier this year because I had issues with my roommate, but also because I felt like I had failed to thrive in the dorm I was living in. I was super lonely, and my roommate had so many friends in the house that I started to just hate being in our room.
  • I really really really like having a boyfriend. I wish I didn’t. It makes me feel very weak and like a very bad feminist.
  • Sometimes I want to curl up in a ball and make someone take care of me, feed me soup, stroke my hair, et cetera. I feel like I’d develop Münchausen Syndrome if I knew I wouldn’t feel guilty about it.
  • I avoid doing things that are hard. I hate exercise. I once chose not to take a class because the final paper sounded really long and boring. I make excuses for everything.
  • I don’t really appreciate the arts. Jazz? I could do without it. Picasso? That’s weird. Beethoven? Eh. I do, however, enjoy shitty writing (especially my own).
  • I’m flaky. I don’t answer texts if I don’t feel like it. Sometimes I bail on bigger plans because I get stressed and weird about it. But if someone doesn’t answer my text, I might cry (see #1).

I’m really not sure about posting this. That Girl Magazine isn’t supposed to be about me. And if this post results in a longwinded and mostly-irrelevant email from my mother, so help me God, I will password protect this whole thing, and encode it in such a high frequency that only those under the age of 30 can hear it.