Sometimes on the bus home, you realize with a wince fifteen minutes too late that you used the word “retarded” talking to someone with a family member with Down Syndrome, whom you have heard speak about the way they hate that word, how they wish that people would fucking think before they perpetuate something hurtful.
Sometimes at a play with a friends, you use a phrase that your father’s Oklahoma family uses in a casual way only to remember that it’s actually pretty racist, and your charming, partly black friend makes you blush. Sometimes while talking you can’t help but describe yourself as slutty, while a professor sits next to you. Sometimes you can’t keep your big mouth shut. Sometimes while walking down the sidewalk you can’t help but lose it over the cracks. Sometimes you realize that everyone can see you brush the dandruff of your jacket. Sometimes you assume an intimacy that isn’t there.
Sometimes you like to think you’re a good person, someone considerate and thoughtful and deliberate with their words. Sometimes you just feel bad.
Mostly I am just really anxious all the time. I’m sorry. I’m trying, I’m trying.