I don’t think I could ever live alone because I cry too much at stupid shit, like the fact that the trash bags I bought don’t fit the size of the bin unless you stretch them til they’re close to tearing, or the fact that a queen ant can lay up to 300,000 eggs a day inside my walls, or that no matter what I do I’ll never make as much money as a white male with an economics degree and somehow this has become a laundry list of this week’s minor crises. (Another being that I don’t have enough quarters for two loads of laundry, but we don’t need to go there.) And honestly, I don’t know if having another person present would necessarily fix any of these issues but I do know that when I sink my teeth into a perfectly ripe, white peach from the farmer’s market while standing over the sink because my shirt is, stupidly, also white, I feel the need to manifest another person beside me so I can say Oh my god, here, you have to try a bite.
I keep hearing that I’m supposed to cry at stupid shit based on where the moon was on the day I was born. I keep trying to stretch these mis-sized trash bag aphorisms over a plastic maw from which emotion lets its stench emanate — I always take it personally when it doesn’t work — Would that I were a white male with an economics degree but it seems to me that my garbage can would swell uncontrollably. I wish the queen and her subjects knew nothing about the white flesh of a peach or of my elbow while I am just fucking trying to eat dinner sadly, just like my garbage can, all they know to do is hunt Still I feel the need to manifest. I don’t think I could live alone. I need to be reminded that contentment is as easy as biting into a peach, and I watch you do it, as you tell me, you have to try a bite.
I keep hearing that I’m supposed to cry at stupid shit based on where the moon was on the day I was born. I keep trying to stretch these mis-sized trash bag aphorisms over a plastic maw from which emotion and its stench emanate — I always take it personally when it doesn’t work — Would that I were a white male with an economics degree but it seems to me that my garbage can would swell uncontrollably. I wish I were less like the ant queen, who pitches a palace in pink drywall with loneliness potent enough to sire an army of infants, and I wish they knew nothing about the white flesh of a peach or of the well that we share within but we all crawl around confused. Still I feel the need to manifest. I don’t think I could live alone. I need to be reminded that contentment is as easy as biting into a peach that slices out solipsism until all that can be said is Oh my god, you have to try a bite.
I keep hearing that I’m supposed to cry at stupid shit based on where the moon was chilling the day I was born, keep trying to stretch these mis-sized trash bag aphorisms over the metallic maw from which emotion and its stench emanate, always taking it personally when it doesn’t work— I wish to be less like the ant queen, who pitches a palace in pink insulation, with loneliness potent enough to spill out a whole society of little selves, wish they knew nothing about the white flesh of a peach or of the well within that we share, though we all crawl around, dizzy. No. I don’t think I could live alone. Need to be reminded that contentment is manifestation, biting into a peach that doles out solipsism until all that can be said is Oh my god, you have to try a bite and, antennae dancing, we do.