ringer tees.

A broken record keeps repeating, "This is your choice." I remember moving here years ago (is it strange to say that? It's true and yet...), and coming to the discovery that, more often than not, it was my own decisions that allowed any suffering I endured. In a more vulgar way you end up asking yourself how much shit you're willing to put up with. I still manage to get bummered too much, but I realize I'm better at checking myself. Which is to say...I've progressed?

I don't want to be your grey cloud baby.

I pulled out a photo of you on the way back from work while slightly spacing out to Beach House, etc. Can I say your face is my face? I mean, well, it's a good face to think about. And your cheeks warm my hands when I rest them upon your face in quiet adoration.

Would you like me with hooker lips and shaggy hair?