one side is saying how shit you are and how you deserve nothing. it’s only women who are worthwhile and you should just fuck off and die.

Except this is a right-wing talking point and a misrepresentation of what left-wing ideals encompass.

the other side is saying ‘do this and you’ll be successful’, it sucks right now but you will get there if you try.

Except that’s not what they communicate, because while they offer “solutions” (mostly towards a rather suppressive and overly strict understanding of gender stereotypes) they immediately find in and shift the blame for young men’s problems towards an out-group, such as the “radical left” and LTBGQ people.

In fact, I find it’s the right that actively hates me for just being me because I don’t conform to their idea of what a man is, even though I’m a cis-hetero white male.

“Don’t try to find your own way because this is what you need to be, and everything else is degenerate and shameful.”

I know which I find more appealing.

I’m sorry. I’m pulling your chain, it’s all good. It’s supposed to be a joke on myself. I tried to give well-intentioned advice and tried to play it up by “doubling down”.

Edit: Damnit, I’m making it worse! Your joke was fine! I couldn’t handle it well! There! Gawd!

You did… What? Make me angrier? Good job! Stop interrupting an old man who’s yelling at clouds!

(… and start appreciating, for fuck’s sake. I know what it looks like.)

The post alone makes me angrier than the cooking result, and that’s saying something.

It looks like student cuisine. Is it really so reprehensible that someone improvises with limited resources? To me, it shows a lot of potential because the good will is there.

People have different skill sets and levels. So, instead of looking down on it, maybe next time you should cook with him instead of arrogantly posting a photo for praise from people who, unlike this person, have no influence on your life?

Pro tip: Cooking together is a fantastic date.

This one made me feel a lot of things.

Many of the songs I sing are ones that once made others think of me. It still hurts.

Some of the images I draw from are what others made for me. I still dream of them.

Sometimes, there’s a scent passing me by, from their kitchen, his hiding spot, her bedroom. I’m still there.

I may have to lay down for a bit.