just when I thought I had climaxed as a failure … diet coke all over my laptop.

lost three hours of this edit, and now my keyboard doesn’t work. composure is frayed, crumbling. I suppose I’ll be in the library tomorrow, if anyone’s around campus to be distracting?

I don’t even like diet coke.

SKYSHARK!

for Will. because he asked for it. and because Swag Giffing is totally one of my talents.

it’s murder, you guys. it’s a conspiracy.

I mean, it’s undeclared. certainly, it’s undeclared: that’s how I know it’s not a war.

and death isn’t a parallel move.

absolutely correct.

although people should maybe not let me be in public places.

you’ll have to answer to the guns of Brunsberg …

how I was in hospital, but then I ate all the McDonalds.

hello, friday.

words

words have been slow, and absent

sticky, perhaps

or not even

ideas are sticky: a pastiche of desire that I am unable to assemble.

… so I’ve been crying less. but I’m adjusting to new meds like that arc in a hungover morning (which is actually the afternoon), when you crave some kind of sustenance which couldn’t possibly be food (because: your stomach) and is probably ‘life’, and so you eat hash browns.

—spacey—

not in an overwhelming way. just … I don’t get most things done. and, like, I hardly care.

I’ve feathers and sequins and a few good friends and, when my nails are dry, I can crawl back into bed and listen to Lou Reed until sometime later tonight. when Will and I are going into public to dudewatch and be awesome.

blame him.

so Will totally brought me a new man ♥ ♥

… and just as I had given up hope of finding a nice, skinny indie boyfriend. (note: sleazy, come-hither wink.)