no offense but almost every modern novel written by a misanthropic female author sounds the same.. I woke up today and had some coffee. I masturbated thinking about Brad. We aren’t together but we’re fucking. I am so much smarter than everyone else. Everything I say is witty, sarcastic, and clever in a way no one in the real world would ever speak. I take a drag from my cigarette and watch the man in the apartment across from me. I’ve always wondered what it would be like to have his dick in my mouth. Btw I have a deep and profound knowledge on niche topics that I casually refer to in conversation. Somehow everyone around me understands it. I’m cold and pale and my freezer dinner is ready. It’s spaghetti and existential dread night. I eat it with a glass of wine. Mommy dearest calls me. She has deposited my monthly check from my dead beat dad. I buy cigarettes and a vibrator. I am deeply unhappy.
iamwizz
allow me to be distant sometimes without taking it personal
Michael Cunningham, The Hours
— Spring Azures, by Mary Oliver
One thing I miss about SF was subtly searching for my soulmate by reading Simone Weil on public transit
can’t stop thinking about this.
