Fewer for numbers, less for amounts.

I want to sleep with fewer men. And yet I keep sleeping with them, so what I say sometimes means shit. Or my will means shit. Or both. D says I need to keep my eye on what I want instead of fucking around with people I know I don't want, which means giving up the feeling of haughty superiority when it fails, as it was fated, to work out. C says I'm not ready for relationships, even though I feel ready. She says I should start talking to Dad again, which I don't do out of laziness and apathy and petulance and fear. If I tried to write poems they'd be cliché and overreaching and rife with words of old poets. I hate that I know that certain people get together and talk about me. I hate that I can't calmly get a thought out without overthinking it or prefacing it or bloating it with addendums and footnotes like a legal brief. And for an exaggeration: the greatest irony is that this all feels
much better
when blogged.