Mouth Fur

I'm just as tired as you are. Of insipid uninspired eyewitness (non-expert) accounts of wading through and wallowing in the deepest shit in the dankest spaces of post-teen bedroom culture. The reality of my existence invalid without higher education is ultimately a bland bleach blond bitch in a poly-amorous relationship with promiscuity and slut-shaming over analyzing the internal conflict of liberation vs. love. Abundance of abandonment leads to shorter shorts & fake fur, fishnets & aquanet, slutstick lips & spider lashes; not going unnoticed but untouched. neither brilliant nor beautiful. unrelenting generosity is not enough to compensate. "I AM SO ALONE" pity party cover stories cover up 'isolation culture' conspiracy. The theory of social constipation states the key to causing consternation is constant motion. Immersed in the cyclical struggle for remote control. Chemical solutions to biological concerns. I can puff out deal breakers for hours with an uncut deck, my hearts not in the cards. We revel in the shared hidden meaning of slumber parties under Goosebump blankets of sleepless skin. It's hard to tell if I've been eating enough or at all. Secrets shared within secret societies do not cease to be secrets. We used to trade quips marginally scrawled in anthologies but we've grown past mutual masturbation. "I am so hip even my errorrs are correct" I spend too much time on the internet to be interesting. I've turned this shit into my LIFE. Tonight your lane seems particularly eerie. It isn't a concern of mine, more so of mastering the art of leaving undetected. Every time I smoke weed I need to shit and I think it's symbolic because I'm stoned. Unsubtly sending signals I'm still single. Bragging is the reason for saying.

Don't wait for the things you want. Everything breaks down eventually. No one moves here and nothing has changed. I know exactly what I will find in the cupboards (nothing) where the scale is hiding, how many pills I can get away with taking. I used to puke in the lawns of my neighbors. I ate a box of laxatives every night. My memories are made of bathroom stalls. Some people are born to die young and I was but missed my chance. When I was 16 years old, I was living in a church on the outskirts of town with nothing but a can of gasoline, waiting to set myself on fire. I pray I've come home to get dead. I'm not going home to kill myself; I'm going to fuck it up. I know who will like this. Mine is a life lived on the internet. I am a product of a dissociative society.
Smoke runs in my blood three generations thick. Twisted messes twirling tresses; stretch marks and growing pains: lies scar. insatiable appetite. blurred vision. deepwheezin. built up muscle acidity. 2 much 10sion. suddenly in love with everyone. realm xcapez in cybereality. msgs in mixtapes via us male. period inducing contact with an alternate actuality.