trying this on

frank castle if he were in the garden of eden instead of adam: hey, hey. don’t look at her. look at me. look at me. i ate that fucking apple.

I drop my phone, it lands screen-down on the pavement. I pick it up and slip it into my pocket without inspecting for damage, not as though I "don't want to know" but nonchalantly, like it makes no difference to me. The few passersby who notice are silently astonished, they don't know whether to admire or scorn me, "who is this person," they think, "how is [she] not torn up with anxiety to see if the screen is cracked? Whence this inhuman equanimity?" (They don't think "she" of course.) Years later, in a coincidence they never discover, these passersby happen to meet and form a jazz quartet, and though they never mention it to each other nor even remember it in the ordinary sense of the word, the music they play is always on some level an attempt to grapple with the mystery of that enigmatic stranger who was so indifferent to the fate of [her] phone screen.

this is my one wild and precious life fucckkkkkkk fuckkkkkk fucckcckkkkkkk

I bet it feels good as fuck to not worry about Your Secret every single day just all day constantly worrying about Your Secret

“Shane just leave the closet” I made a shrine of the closet before I even knew I was trapped inside it. the closet has become an effigy of my suffering inside the closet. If I leave the closet and everything is okay then why was I ever in the fucking closet— and if everything goes how i think it will go, then i destroyed and betrayed my closet just for everyone to hate me for having been in the closet at all. “Well if you would’ve come out sooner—“ I made a shrine of the closet before I knew I was trapped. Is anyone even listening?

oh i forgot i was reading the house of bernarda alba earlier and i managed to make it about hollanov ... sickness