#litrrature

   Kafka and I had a terrible breakup as a result of me trying to read “The Trial.” But, I can now say we’ve made up and are getting on smashingly. The story above, just a few pages long, is the reason why. 

In it, he writes of the death of hunger art as a way to poke fun at society’s changing cultural “interests.” The funny thing though is that today hunger art, or performance art, actually…

You had my name tattooed on your chest and that scared me. What the fuck? What if we broke up? You’re so sure of your love for me when I can’t even define what love is. Every morning I’d wake up to you holding a tray of breakfast, shirtless. You’d approach the bed with a smile I can barely return. I thought about legally changing my name. But then you might get another tattoo.

You made an effort to mark my skin with kisses and that pressured me. You imagined ink on parts of me but I could only imagine blood, pain and permanence. Is there an area hidden by my clothes and is also hidden from me? But I’d always know it’s there.

I settled for a henna.

I lied and I’ve been wasting my money having it retouched every week. That’s 7weeks I was sure I’d stay with you. Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven. Twelve. By this time the artist was already asking me to just get a permanent tattoo. But no, I can’t. Not yet.