With Romanticized Notions Of The Alcoholic Writer I Proceeded To Fold My T-Shirts
just an abnormal guy here looking for a spider with no patience anymore for trying to make connections with people
who are not the same as me i am passionate about music and soccer and photography and i write psychedelic word
thingamajigs but dont read that much if you are exactly the same as me lets get together for some tshirt folding
i mean think about it you should stop thinking about it i must say that i like the human hand and the inhuman foot
i dont adore celebrity in any way i weigh up whether the person has done anything of real merit in alignment with
the measurements that i can draw up in relation to my life experience of being a human being in modern society oh
give us a kiss you horrendously sexy man oh yeah and ive been driven to alcoholism by loneliness and alienation
even though i have been completely out of the closet about masculine men giving me erections since the age of 21
i fucking love envelopes in less ways than 2 what is the most comfortable city in the world for creative freaks to
live in fuck off if you are into fucking if you are unfamiliar with the diy ethic then please get up on hands and
breeze your by my own definition i am far from enamoured with people who would deign to be in my audience i think
i would only aspire to feel kinship with people who are as creative as me and not dumb fools who create nothing
i know i will delete that when i am sober people tell me they dont like my wallpaper so then i know that it is
achieving the desired a fecked effect you must remember that not all people who make amazingly resonantly fucked up
music are tortured with existential depression mirroring the cods wallop plaice in the world frigo dans la cuisine
even though the french quiz ian about his sexuality because he was wearing trousers in the sauna like a bakery fad
they still fail to admit in consistent swathes that the terminology of warts will devour the chambers of penny lest
she make some devastating changes to her tall paper acrimony with a satiable curiousity that bleeds to be forlorned
by the people who love cooking animals if you dont give me a toy land seat i will trample awe lover your stirrups
with strain joe vert owns that mimic the mating call of the cab array violinist in dulcimer or something less raucous
