The ultimate postmodern act is to separate all acts of intimacy from the possibility of meaning.
I actually like and care about my job and don’t hate going to work. This has been an unanticipated announcement from Francesca’s Life.
I have, like, plans n’ shit, and they’re even attainable. I still sort of think I’m cursed, but at least now I can enjoy being cursed in style. I am almost at peace… or at least, equilibrium.
I just can’t believe that it’s over.
We were chilling out on the sofa,
digging how the guitar goes
in a song that no one knows.
Did you burn that bridge yourself,
or did the voodoo magic help?
Does everyone have a different take -
are you just cool, and I’m just baked?
Does everyone get mesmerized by your fire?
I really devalue how lucky I am to be where I am. Walking down Fifth Avenue is called “going home.” I should stop inventing problems because I’m pretty much already living the dream.
Bad habits die hard.