She felt the abyss of disenchantment.

– Gabriel García Márquez, Love in the Time of Cholera

Somebody who told me they liked me and I do not like told me that they read my blog, somebody I liked and I told I liked does not read my blog.

Welcome to a new series of blog posts, brought to you by the creator of this blog post is without point (x).

I once read an alt-lit piece where she listed in explicit detail all the people she had slept with. My mind is of similar approach when it is too bored to be doing what it is supposed to.

You know the way that tea sometimes tastes like seafood?

I’m beginning to think that all the things I was doing because I thought I was valuing myself were actually those pertaining to lack of self-value.

I find most things pretty when I’m drunk. I’m drunk when I look at him.

This is birthday season. David Tennant. Demented Squirrel. Me. In that order.

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I really have no idea what to make a film about.

This blog post is self-absorbed. I hope you’re not reading this.

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