#182

no-sex appeal

Julia Kowalska

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This stupid substack was never more read or profitable than when I was writing about love. As much as I begrudge this, I also completely understand. There is an elemental satisfaction to reading about other people’s love lives; a vicarious thrill no one is immune to. Testimonies of love remind us of our commonalities; they lessen the alienation. They have always captured our cerebration, bewitched and tethered us to each other.

I recognize that part of the interest in my musings on love was more about who I was writing about. People are nosy, but they become complete perverts when it comes to names. Fucking names. The oglers always find you. But they don’t stay. Once you move on, they move on.

Nothing left to extract here!

I don’t mean to sound resentful. I am actually relieved that those people are gone. I wasn’t writing for them; I was writing for me. I was desperate to un-fuck myself, to heal. And it worked.