paint my face red

I used to write fictional—stories about the way the world worked, the things people said, felt, did.

Now I’m here, writing non-fiction, but wishing the world I once imagined was the way things actually were.

Reality is so much worse.

The whole concept still baffles me—sitting on my couch in a city of millions, clicking on the profile of someone beautiful. They click on mine. We “match.” We meet. We talk for a few hours, gauge the chemistry, then decide:

Do we sleep in the same bed? Never speak again? Or toy with the idea of a second date?

Rinse and repeat.

I didn’t think women this beautiful slept around. I didn’t think people this beautiful wanted the same thing I wanted—sex. I didn’t think I’d sleep around. I don’t sleep around.

I still don’t think I understand the concept of a one-night stand.

I’ve always been intentional about who I spend my time with. I don’t think I give off the energy of someone looking for just sex. And yet, somehow, they keep ending up in my bed—or I end up in theirs. AND everyone leaves confused when I don’t wanna have sex??????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????

Where’s the fun in this?

I don’t feel young anymore. Not old, but older.

I’m 26. And I’m upset I didn’t do this at 21—maybe I would’ve gotten it out of my system. But instead, I’m here now, drained, starving for something deeper, unable to think about love. Or loving.

Then I read your palms.

"See this line here? It says you’re into genuines."

The yes—he’ll be so, so happy.
The no—he will avoid the biggest mistake of his life.

A deliberate dilemma.

But my most recent dilemma isn’t really one at all, though I wish it was.

I don’t miss you as much as I want to.
I don’t care who you’re fucking, and that hurts?

I mean, I wouldn’t want to receive a sex tape in the mail—that might hurt?
But the thought of it, the knowing of it, doesn’t sting the way it did weeks ago. Or months ago.

But I want to miss you.
I don’t want to not feel bad or sad.

Because sometimes, without those feelings, I don’t feel much at all.

that’s not fun.

Whoops. Don’t take this too seriously.

It’s not that I don’t feel anything.
I just don’t care about anything in a romantic way,
and I miss that?

“Whoops. Love yourself, man.”

I’m writing this after listening to Pistol by Cigarettes After Sex, lying in bed.

Take some salt.

I just turned on the sauna,
because I don’t have a humidifier,
and it works the same.

I had a girl over last night. She was cute. It was fun.
I like her, but I won’t love her.

The night before, another.
She was a demon.
I didn’t care.

Someone to take care of for the night. Honey.

Apparently, I have to cover up my tattoos when I meet your parents.
And my parents being divorced is a huge red flag.

She said, “This is going to sound like a red flag—”

"Maybe I shouldn’t say it, but this is the first time in a long time I’ve been sober having sex. Thank you.”

Okay, weirdo??? Wtf???

Just kidding, I understand that honestly, and I’m happy for you. But maybe leave that out on your next date, love.

"Can I kiss you?"

"Do you always preemptively ask?"

"Sorry, I’m slightly autistic."

A night of holding someone is healing to my soul.

I think I just have an obsession

with touching skin

with my eyes closed.

Fast forward—

It’s now Saturday night; I deleted Hinge this week.

Lonely nights make me wanna miss her,
or wonder what she’s doing.

Unfair.

I stopped responding to everyone I was talking to.

After talking with my mom, we came to the conclusion that I am, in fact, autistic—
and I’m doing the exact opposite of what Carter six months ago (good Carter) would have done.

I’ve split into two different Carters,
preserving the old one by letting the new one take over.

The new one is a demon.
He comes out to convince, then leaves.

"If you want me, get on your knees, it’s so easyyyyy. Then touch my skin and hold onto me."

"I wanna see you again—
if you wanna see me too, will you send me your schedule?"

“I don’t see this being a long-term thing, but i’ve enjoyed our time together”

Apparently, my politics are also a red flag.
Second time in a month I’ve been called Satan.

Gotta start reading like an actor,
or a salesman.

I used to have such a loving outlook on all of this,
I think once I leave NYC, it will come back.
For now, it’s just the way it is.

I’ve written all of this over starting 1/18 in my notes app— it’s 9:53 1/28— and I’m ready for you to take me.

I haven’t been a slut; I did get my haircut today.

Okay.

At the end of it all…

I wanna kiss ya,
but you won’t let me near ya.

In case we don’t come back,
or in case we do.

This is mostly fictional, if you know me you kinda know that, but just to end-face this shit post…

Love you.