I once had a favorite sweater. Blue, slight v-neck, slim fit. Don’t remember the material. Wool maybe. Not scratchy, but the soft kind. My mom gave it to me and it was the last thing she’d given me that I still owned. But last year I left the sweater at an Airbnb on Tybee Island and when I messaged asking if it was there, they guy never responded.
I see happy people everywhere. Mostly online. Then my mind applies associative reasoning: happy online, happy all the time.
Once I gave a Thai Massage to a girl and messaged after to follow up because I always try to follow up because I think it's courteous, but she never responded. I still lie in bed awake, focusing very single-mindedly on this experience and telling myself it’s okay ryan, she’s busy, or has some totally unrelated thing going on her life—desperately trying to concoct positive energy and hurl it into what’s become a mental black hole.
I wonder about the mental health of Angus and Julia Stone because at the end of the day for the past two weeks I Spotify them and only them, or I try someone else like Modest Mouse, but change it back. I wonder about their mental health because at the end of the day I resonate with them and I feel empty like a Sriracha bottle you have to smack and still nothing comes out.
Each video I’ve posted on Facebook or Instagram in the past four days, I post and immediately wonder whether I should delete. Wonder is too weak a verb. Stomach cramps and fits of oh my god is it good paralysis. That’s closer.
The stop sign on the corner is still upside down.
For the longest time, I was trying to condom-or-pull-out NOT get pregnant. For years. My whole male existence thus far. Now it’s upside down. I’m hoping sperm swim swim swim.
They say “that’s funny.” But really it means that’s chaos. But people prefer funny to chaos.
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