wretched thing

*goes to Coachella in a white linen suit like an antebellum lawyer, sweating profusely and dabbing at my forehead with a handkerchief* now, I’m no fancy scientist, but would you folk know where a simple gentleman such as myself could obtain some acid? Now, I’m no big city lawyer, but could any of you fine youths point a country boy such as myself in the direction of some fucking acid?

The writer's barely disguised longing for a soft life shared with someone who loves them

every 5 minutes i go wow i NEED to kill myself and then i ignore it because i have things to do

a character who truly, legitimately goes “but why does that matter?” about their feelings when someone who cares about them asks. and the sudden falling of everyone around them’s faces as they realize that this person doesn’t recognize themself as someone who needs or should be taken care of. i want Everyone to hurt. surprise at the idea, worry for them, horror at not having noticed. do you see this person who doesn’t think of themselves as a person?

arousal! repulsion! arousal! repulsion! arousal! repulsion! arousal! repulsion!

"when i was your age, netflix came to our house in the mail" never gets old. they don't believe you, because they can't, because they cannot conceive the apparatus by which this would be true. but it is true. they mailed me season 1 of the sopranos with stamps. with fucking stamps man

i love writing out numbers and then putting them in parentheses like "one (1)" even when i dont need to i think its funny