I am not Quebecois, and I will never be Quebecois even though I live in Quebec among people of Quebec which it is not a race nor a country but a City belonging to other people of this country—so take that motherfucking flag elsewhere boy.
Find someone else.
“I oblige you to look at the face that is printed on the spine of this book.”
Overly feminine and overly masculine. Overly big and overly small. Overly loud and overly silent. Overly poor and overly fancy. Overly over, and game over.
I guess that is just how the human brain works by association trying to fit you inside a box where you can not be; beaten, broken, and pulled apart in pieces, but you are now aren’t you, and then put together everything makes sense leaving you farting your head off.
Sometimes it’s the little things which make me feel that I am worthy enough to be alive like that one time when I refused a piece of the cake because I sensed that it wasn’t meant for me.
When one’s work is shared and still they wonder if they should state appreciation.