I’m eating BBQ Lays out of the trashcan, which smells like vomit because I puked fluorescent lemon into it a few hours ago and still have some stuck in the gold chain around my neck that holds my grandfather’s wedding ring. I’m eating them from the bag, which I poured dish soap into last night so I would stop eating them, which is in the trashcan at the top.
Sometimes it’s OK to go on a six month downward spiral, as you long as you’re chic about it. Basically, there’s a right way and a wrong way to be a disaster. Like, you can’t just show up to your abortion wearing sweat pants. What if you ran into a street style photographer on the way there?