When are you going to do something about these terrible picked up random books that are now stuck on your library shelf, and awaiting to be left behind.
Stranger: What did you dream about last night.
Me: I was standing in the kitchen when suddenly my throat started to regurgitate a handful of someone’s hair like nobody’s business.
Stranger: Where are your parents.
Me: “We found you in the trash.”
When you are over thirty and trying still to tease pedophiles.
When your voice tone starts to level and match your brain cells; instant therapy.
The innocence of a parasite; a visual narcotic—an ex addict and consumer shamed alright.
“Let me pot-pourri sexual obsession and publicity after shooting a skank and tagging it money art.”
Once a someone might have just saw you in your underwear through the fine mesh of the window screen, that’s it, it’s never gonna’ happen again.
If everyone was born equal we wouldn’t have to have first, second, and third place—never.
Here is to this someone that I would hold dearly in my heart and who would pass away without me; after all I wasn’t cared for enough.