I Am Not A One-Night Stand Kind Of Girl (Thought Catalog)

Because this entry speaks to me in more ways than one

I want late night conversations while I’m sitting on the kitchen counter in his baggy t-shirt with a hole in the collar, eating ice cream and talking about the universe.

via I Am Not A One-Night Stand Kind Of Girl — Thought Catalog


I’ve always been a night person.

I remember my dad telling me a story about how he was telling my young self that when the lights go out, I should go to sleep, but I didn’t and I just kept looking at him. This was around 2 am if I remember correctly.

(I’m not good at telling stories, but I swear it’s amusing when he tells it.)

It has its perks. I’m more productive, especially when I haven’t done anything exhausting during the day. My head is clearer, even, especially if only the reading lamp is on and I have good music on. Plus I get to think (and write) about things I wouldn’t normally think about when the sun’s out. I don’t know why; I haven’t read much about it. On weekends, I get to have a marathon of the TV series I watching. Yes! (This was before sophomore year in college, though. *sigh.)

Being able to stay up all night has its downsides, too.

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I constantly need someone to hold me because I can’t hold myself together.


Goal: To be a Big-ass Ball of Gas

Edit, three years later: I think, when I explode, I’d be more when you microwave eggs — messy and goey and icky. Haha.

I want to be a star.
I want to be giant ball of gas so that when I explode, I’d be powerful. I’d give off light so bright, it could outshine an entire galaxy.

But I’m only, obviously, human. Living, breathing, made of flesh and bone. When I explode, I won’t be anything like a spectacular supernova. I would be like a black hole.

Stare into my eyes. See nothing but darkness.
There would be no sparks, no light.
Almost like there’s no sign of life.


(I’m feeling very hopeless today.)

I’ve finally trained myself to wear a “mask” in public to hide the bad stuff beneath. Back then, the negativity would seep out every once in a while and it chased some people away – people who would not want to suffer the awkwardness after I’ve answered their question, “Are you okay?”.

It’s as if I’m a whole new person when I’m out. The things that caused sadness would seem as if it was only a distant memory, something that had happened years ago when in fact, it only happened seven hours ago.

But I need a better, more permanent solution. Wearing this mask is like putting a band-aid on a cut that needs to proper medical attention. I feel like one day, if I don’t fix myself, I might implode. Like a star collapsing in on itself.