Immediately upon arriving home, I locked my bedroom door and spread on my floor. I sketched a sum on a blanket that smells like cockroaches. For five darling hours now, I'd been holing away, downloading a sad pile of sad songs, and glacially eating cold ramen. I'm wearing a hoodie for fuck's sake. It's high school all over again. My record player is struggling to blare music preeminently. I want it superlative. I want it paramount. That's how young I feel right now. The only difference between me then and me right now is the fact that every few minutes, I now massage my back in attempt to obliterate these malicious knots. My apprehensions lie on the fact that my computer might get a virus and how the ramen will keep me bloated all night.
I will date myself whether I like it or not. I will pursue me. I will court me. I will swoon over me.
(Maybe)
(I'm hopeful)
(I'm a lot more fun when I have only myself to impress)
(parenthetical bull shit is my shit)
