Your love for fantasy cuteness plucked out of algorithmic reality will likely be your undoing. Caculated curation is your (social) capital. Just pick and choose and try again until it works. It never hurts quite as good to perform any of your other qualities.
If a wall stays blank for too long it starts to look as if it's breathing. The empty surface pulses and calls out to you. Your desire for clutter to reach all the way up to the ceiling spreads like mold. Forgotten, discarded things ferment into hazards under your hoarding custody.
You try to approximate a less distinct aeshtetic positionality, only to find yourself lifeless, still falling short of piecing together the right balance of intentional yet nondescript enough to move through life always watched yet unharassed. The more you get through the day, the week, the bathroom break, you find yourself regressing: feeling sixteen again, wondering if hell really is other people. Too paranoid to ever pass, the grossest Grindr dms you can recall bubble up as confirmations of what everyone around you must be thinking all the time. Your nature-or-nurture penchant for cuteness feels like weakness.
Mirrors tempt: “Ignore old taboos and place me directly in front of your bed. Play dress up with all the other cuter, futcher versions of you that could have been. You could still have the courage/foolishness/impulsiveness to spend all your time in other people’s bedrooms instead."
Stay in this shrine to cuteness, surrounded by smaller, theoretical yous. Clunky machine running on indulgent empty calories long enough to rewire its hardware. Try to avoid hating the useless things you keep out of love.
Home is a place to display all the things you attempt not to wear on your sleeve.