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| things only flamingos can dig |
"I am giving up all lubricants - socially, that is - I guess I always knew that creation could be isolating, somewhere I knew that. At first it was lonely, but now, a friend invites me out, and I imagine myself putting on my face, taking it off again, just to put it right back on again, and --- I am just scared and tired. How many times can your image speak for you before your tongue swells too large and you choke and die?"
She was always asking questions like that. Her brow stern and eyes wide. What the fuck I was supposed to tell her? Could I answer a question with a question? And why was she asking me? I had been clinging to the same jean jacket since highschool, and I wasn't about to put my PBR down to take it off.