johnothan

Or maybe, if I really think about it, that makes perfect sense.

But I like to tell Dylan that there's no room for sense in the modern world,

And hypocrisy is a shoe three sizes too big

So i suppose objectively it's fine, in a roundabout way

Me and Dylan love roundabouts.

We love trying to talk circles around each other

And traumatizing all the other plastic equestrians

Who don't yet know that their parents will divorce

Dylan keeps begging to teach me Warhammer 40,000

And there's no world in which he understands that it will strike me down

Like a torpedo firing Icarus from the sky

So I tell him we'll do it tomorrow

This is much like the conversation we've had about Bojack Horseman, and that one Duster album

We argue when he says I'm not Real depressed

Because I believe that being medicated is proof of that

Instead of making the rock in my soul less real

I did not ask for this, Dylan.

I simply sat in my bed for too many days in a row to avoid it

And it is not a crime to be afraid of oneself

Any more than it is to love wrong

Or to love someone who is mean

The only jail we are in is our own

And the upsetting part is that there really is love

And when I cry he runs his fingers through my hair

We've never pulled each others hair

Or caused each other unwanted pain

But what does that mean, though?

I guess it means we did ask for this

We asked for something we can't stomach

And that's why I keep asking for luck,

Why he only respects black holes,

Why our inevitable breakup is schrodigers cat with only 12 lives