I spent so many Sundays off in a daydream about a boy, or wondering if period blood had stained the back of my white cloak. I cringe now to think about what was going through my mind all those years — so many amens mumbled while thinking about what oral sex might feel like.
My continued descent into curmudgeonly stagnation excites me to no end. As practice, I have already started hating Skrillex and One Direction without knowing anything about them. It feels phenomenal.
You won’t know the mistake you’ve made until after things have ended, and those same streets and subways start to haunt you. Those spots, your spots, the ones that you so willingly shared with that first person you loved in this city, are now poisoned.
We have no chips on our shoulders, are not the whiny Millennials we’ve been painted as. (Coddle me if you want, though; I won’t reject you.)
Unfinished books, must you look peevishly at me from your bedside perch of eternal judgment? You represent all that I haven’t done because I’m too busy drinking and watching How I Met Your Mother reruns.