Walpurgis

guys, if i do kill myself and never published any books or anything please copy all my best tumblr posts and arrange them into a deeply moving stream of consciousness narrative and submit it to the new yorker on my behalf. i feel like i can count on you. don't let my life and posting have been in vain

actually hate that the bodys response to anything is nausea. ate too much? nauseous. ate too little? nauseous. an imaginary threat got you scared? be nauseous. on your period? you guessed it. sawed into your hand and need to go to the emergency room? perhaps throwing up into your open wound will be of help

trying to not notice incel terminology becoming mainstream and slipping into everything, for my own sanity