Rewound the scene after coming back from the bathroom because I heard the main girl on the show make an awkward date rape joke and wanted to see if it was actually funny but it seemed like a joke I’d heard before
The higher the digits went, the more I shrunk, compacting in my seat in my silent room to grow faster, higher, larger, made of money I rarely transferred into palpable bank notes. I liked seeing the number of my bankroll climb. A withdraw seemed a loss.
“We like twitter as a place to relax and goof around!” isn’t really a rallying cry I can get behind. It feels like used cars with fast food wrappers all inside them, and in light of that I actually agree with Franzen and wish Twitter did not exist, though I think he misses entirely what I find as the point. I don’t want to watch you talk to friends or know where you are going for dinner.
Seems like these guys might have never eaten food in their life. Felt my arm trying to move over to the mouse just now to click next track before I even thought to do that. So much “I’m going to the beach and never coming back” in all these white kids making up songs now.
I am kind of itchy and just rode the stationary bike for 700 calories and am drinking a grapefruit flavored La Croix. I am going to press play on the movie now.
He would get angry when she didn’t want to walk beside him. His head was small and buzzed of hair and he looked red. I don’t think he ever smiled where I could see him. He would not look at me. He seemed to want to explode.
I wonder if this Liz singer lady has ever been into a WalMart. Seems like she would have had to by now but I can’t see her even parking in the parking lot. Seems like she doesn’t have a body below the head…
The shift in colors made rooms feel different, shaded, and the acts inside them, then, seemed slightly off; inconsistencies in my experience of the inconsistencies, equally disorienting and compelling.
My winter coat. The other winter coat I like more. My “Jesus Got Er Dun” hoodie I bought drunk in Gatlinburg, Tennessee. A zip up hoodie. The hooks the coats and hoodies hang on. A metal trash can. A roll of bags in the bottom of the can under the trash. My running shoes.
But where is Jared? The room is full of Jared. I keep hoping he’ll come stumbling from the back, drunk on meat and triangle cheeses, raising up his arms.