Coffee and Musings

 There’s a certain humiliation in realizing I care more. Not the dramatic kind — just a quiet, dull sting that settles under the skin. It shows up in small ways. The “oh sorry I forgot” texts. The conversations that die unless I resuscitate them. The way I’m always the one checking in, nudging, holding everything upright while everyone else just… exists. And the worst part is how stupid it makes me feel. Like I’m handing out gold to people who bring plastic in return. I keep circling the same question: Do I protect my peace, or do I keep trying? But trying for what? To convince people to like me? To earn the bare minimum? To pretend the imbalance doesn’t scream every time I reread our conversations? It’s not even heartbreak. It’s irritation. It’s boredom. It’s the growing awareness that I’m investing in people who treat connection like a background noise. Some people just don’t choose me the way I choose them. Not because they’re cruel — just because they don’t think about me as mu...

 There are two types of people in the world right now: the ones who proudly say “67” like it’s a personality trait, and the ones who pretend they’re above brain-rot culture… but still smirk when someone whispers it. Honestly, we’ve reached a point in internet history where trends make zero sense, and the less sense they make, the harder we laugh. It’s beautiful, in a “my last two brain cells are fighting for their lives” way. The funniest part? 67 has absolutely no reason to be as iconic as it is. It just exists. No deep meaning. No lore. No emotional backstory. It’s literally a number that somehow walked into the group chat, sat down confidently, and became the main character. It’s unhinged, stupid, pointless — and for some reason, it feels like a universal inside joke. Like, “oh you get it? I get it too. We’re the same type of chaotic.” Maybe that’s why these brain-rot trends hit so hard. Life is stressful, exams are scary, adulthood is looking at us from around the corner like a...