i'm dedicating my life to writing short stories and making lo-fi depression music. and that way i'll never have to leave my room. i can just stay in here, and slide the manuscripts under the door. once a week someone can come and leave some food and cigarettes and alcohol. and every so often, typewriter ribbons and guitar strings.



you know that feeling you get when you realize there's a pretty good chance you fucked up your life? i've been like that for a week. i can't pinpoint what. or maybe i can and i don't want to say. ever think of that, sweetheart?



something that feels like love: benadryl. blurs your vision, makes you woozy, and you feel like your floating.



the irony.