I’m so fucked up. I don’t know what I want out of life. I don’t know where I want to live or what I want to do. This morning I did an interview with a Baltimore radio station. My heart wasn’t in it, but I tried as best I could to be funny; after all, the show must go on.
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We had a window of time, limited, contained, enclosed, isolated. Kept safe. Those days were sweeter for their certainty. Nothing more could have happened; nothing less than perfect. I didn’t love you. It was better than that. Love is hurtful, damaging, ugly. Love barbs you with its poisoned thorns, altering your internal circuit board, electrifying you.