Lolll same.

My friends and I text each other back and forth throughout the week, sending pictures of Shia LaBeoufs and Timothée Chalamets. That’s all we do: talk shit about ourselves while LaBeoufing and Chalameting all over the internet.

Bored as fuck and hopeless, we DM each other primary colored umbrellas on the coastal beaches of Italy and New York City kitchens with white tile and midnight blue cabinetry. “I just want to smell like the subway” I cry [via text]. Brooklyn, choose me. I only smell like flowers when I want to.

“Why can’t I live there forever?” we ask about the middle-of-nowhere treehouse that is triangle shaped and sits in the woods of a secret forest that is the brother of the cousin of Portland and Seattle. He brews his own coffee.

~I just Postmated Dave’s Hot Chicken~ we giggle and snort and gag over our pathetic love of spending our barely-any-monies on spicy protein and those sexy French fries with the ridges. Yummy, I love those. What do we call those? I can’t believe they forgot my Dr. Pepper. The human condition is now made up of: shut up and pass the ketchup.

At 1AM I send a text insisting my friends “watch this show.” It’s about love and loss and rape and all the stories I don’t want to talk to myself about at night alone in my room on a Sunday. You know, that heavy feeling you get in your tummy when your existence is swelling and tumbling inside of you? Wait, that’s just my uterus.

I hate reality TV and I’m happy about hating something others love. I am small and important, and I deserve all the pathetic attention my followers give me because I think I’m funny and I think it’s funny that I think that about myself.

The last guy who came over and drank my beer and put his fingers through his hair like it was a sunny day in the ‘bu after 11PM told me two minutes into making out that this was a mistake. I could have saved him the saliva and told him he was never going to be the one anyway.

I was just made for sex and board games and for that one boyfriend I might have seriously liked for a few months from the Midwest although he really isn’t that good of a photographer. Sometimes when I’m feeling really naughty, I look back at the pictures he took of me and I imagine all the money I could have made if I charged him for my time.

In my dreams I am a millionaire who shits money after I forgive a boy. I suck at forgiving, so my account is currently negative. I never wash my mouth with soap – only pieces of cheese that fall on the ground from cows I don’t milk. I choose not to educate myself about the processes of things I am guilty of consuming. And I don’t mind that I am a little bit disgusting. 

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