You are more like: writing in the lines, in the margins, in the sides of notebooks. Swirls doodled in class. Jotted lines on napkins. You are spilling out of me, bursting.
Whenever I get injured or sick, my go-to method is the ol’ “do nothing.” Yep. I do nothing. I continue on with my life, dragging my half-working body around like I’m the guy from Monty Python and The Holy Grail. “It’s just a flesh wound!” I shout as my arm falls off.
Paris: Where you’ll never be as well-dressed as that random chain-smoking twelve year old.
It’s a lovely little creative outlet for people who want to not only, let’s say, watch a TV show, but to engage and create and comment on and be inspired by that show. On my corner of the Internet, Tumblr is a place where fans can be fans — together.
Panic attacks send adrenaline all over your body. When I have one, my heart races and my hands shake like someone’s doing brain surgery on me while I’m awake. The rest of my body might shiver or tremble with little seizures.
You’re the Diane Keaton and Mia Farrow to my Woody Allen. The Patty Boyd to my Eric Clapton and George Harrison. The half-Japanese cello enthusiast to my Weezer.
In a flash, it’s six hours later and I know the words to all of One Direction’s songs and I hate Finchel and I think bowties are cool and I want Sherlock to shag the bejesus out of John Watson. I look out my window at the people having fun on the city streets and I pity them.
What I actually said seems like something a fetishist would ask of a specialty hooker.
I am looking at you. Your furrowed eyebrows, your intent on your task, your dedication to working and to a lightened screen when the sun shines in from the outside through a window advertising chai lattes and I have one ringing, piercing thought: Let’s run away.
If Bigfoot is real, then what else is out there in the world — beyond the accepted walls of your city’s Museum of Science? What else are we wrong about? It would cause a re-examination of just about everything. It’d be fantastic.