Love. War. Long odds.
Miley Cyrus. image
Miley Cyrus. image
on a corner in roxbury, he was talking my ear off.
something about tv and racism and a child dancing in latex underwear.
the conversation was undressing me.
when my momentary savior arrives,
she is in the form of a woman staggering up to ask if we had any weed.
she says excuse me and he turns to me
with those big eyes that say, i am getting in my sandcastle
shut the fuck up about the tide. ok.
We never know all the variables simultaneously. But the answers we get depend on the types of calculations we are continuously making. Note momentum.
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And, as such, agreements made between adults should be kept between those adults. You don't like the terms? Don't participate in the deal. Walk away from the table at any time.
Reconsider your business model.
But whatever you do just shut the fuck up. The media is hungry. And you are the junk food. They feast on the indiscrete, the pathological liars. You're an offering to the legion of people looking to discharge their own shame on someone else in the comment section of [whatever fucking blog].
You are a sacrifice; a temporary distraction from others' personal failures. Don't wave yours around like a badge of honor.
Collateral damage is for children.
