are these too lofty, such expectations: a parallel between the words written and the words said? being told how much i'm adored whilst being treated like a fucking stranger? i was lounging lackadaisically in my xmas-lit lair, warm skin, listening to goddamn nina simone, feeling rather fucking groovy, and hung up the phone feeling very annoyed by the disparities. felt like a simpering moron, actually, brought back to earth after my little fandango among the stars. there is hell to pay for believing in false familiarity.
i still have the thought processes of an adolescent. currently typing in a cafe is the equivalent of sprawling on my bed and writing torturedly in my *diary*, horses on the cover optional, possibly in purple ink, tongue absentmindedly running over braces.
speaking of the worst years of my life!: found a used copy of the pixies 'bossanova', an album i'd not heard in many years, the cassette shredding from oversaturation and long lost. and i still remembered every fucking lyric, every percussion, every scathing-yet-ethereal backing vocal. this made me very happy. it is excellent driving music.
despite being cold as holy fuck outside, i am in a marvelous mood overall, actually.
holy. fuck. this is such a concise and offensive idiom, which i have never really considered until just now.
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1 comment:
like a cattle prod indeed
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