Fun fact: Back in school, I used to write love letters for other people (think Joaquin Phoenix in ‘Her’), which I was pretty good at (generally, people like a formula.) However, when it came time for me to write my own first, personal love letter to someone, it came out as this shitty mess.

It’s a funny memory, though. Thank God I’m better at relationships now.


We haven’t as much as exchanged two words.

It’s how most things start for me. I live in a world where silence is God. All my thoughts are conducted in such manner. They remain in that mysterious part of the human interior, that abstract part we aren’t quite entirely sure of, but know exists because how else are we conscious of our own existences?

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Like, I actually think I’m pretty damn funny.

But my humor is a privilege not a right.

You don’t get none of this until you friend me right.

Halp, I think there’s something wrong with me.


that’s what i woke up with this morning.

underneath the veneer of tiredness and bone-ache, i sensed it humming patiently. i felt it running, whirring along with the ferocious engine in my chest, firing into my heart and my lungs, fuel to daydreams, like diving deep underwater into the murky depths of La Roux’s Tropical Chancer. 

And she’s before my eyes, a thousand images sliding into me like bricks building up through their slots. the music a word, a move. Overwhelming giddiness, happiness to have a higher purpose than just the profane hilarity of forcd happiness. even if it’s a lie at least i sleep and wake more peacefuly than i would undreamed.