Every time I go to see a film, upon departing from the theater, I’m reminded how infinitesimally small I truly am in the grand scheme of things. From the moment my rebellious grub-ass reclines back into that chair and sticks my feet on the chair in front of me, I become hyper-aware of how minuscule my thoughts, opinions and beliefs are rendered to societal eye. Copious amounts of doubt begin to flood the cerebrum, rushing with an unremitting current that stops for nothing or no one. Without fail this lack of conviction, quandary and other various inadequacies or substandard ingredients really lodge themselves comfortably in all the cracks and crevices underneath this thick skull. Voids, if you will, that one could assume were left vacant for potentialities, are now occupied with mediocrity and self-loathing.

You know what the most heart-wrenching part about this entire thing is? I’m not alone in experiencing any of this. Millions of people go to bed feeling grossly unsatisfied with themselves, and I think there’s something horribly wrong with that.

But what do I know, right? I’m just some girl on Tumblr.