You are no sardonic chess game, you can go now.
I find words to be incredibly taxing at this point, and I don’t feel like cooperating with the conventional standards…and don’t get me wrong. It’s not because I’m trying to care.
I just no longer have that. Feeling.
Your moves are predictable and your credit history sucks.
Have you ever eaten metal out of a jello container…? Because I have, and now I’m guarded as hell. Tambien, I have my eyes set on ripcords, freefalling, and the possibility of bravery.
I feel frozen by your bullshit. Go to hell.
The prospect of having a career and kid by 30 is so goddam backwards and out of reach that I’ve started a Facebook fan page called “Go Fuck Yourself, Life’s Over”. You should join.
Press here.
I know this person, she’s cool. I’ve seen her breasts, and she’s seen my chest. We’re practically incompatible, and I’m okay with that. She reminds me of everything Tracey Emin wants to say but can’t. But then again, she’s not Tracey Emin. You bore me.
I dream of pancakes and bacon on a daily basis.
I am still amazed by the concept of personality. Once, when living in Brooklyn, I went to a loft party. It was December, and I was 25. It was loud, crazy, lots of music, some fights, and I got home late. There’s nothing magical about love at 5am on a subway. It’s just life. Deal with it.
