The paintings are quite, well, bad. Not Response to Hurricane Katrina bad, but bad nonetheless.
I have to take you in out of the corner of my eyes. If I can’t meet you head-on, it’s because it is all too much for me, all at once.
On breakup day 2 I wrote a tumblr post that is the emotional equivalent to a cup of my tears. 150 days later I reviewed and commented.
You wait in the MRI machine. Cold contrast dye splits your veins into arctic and tropic currents. Metals clang together. The whole thing sounds like accessing America On-Line in 1998 at a New York City subway stop. You’re on sedatives because fuck this shit. You think, “This dubstep concert sucks.”