My Myspace page becomes a giant collage depicting my undeniable love for Dana and Tegan and Sara. I’m not hiding anything. In fact, I think I’m making it pretty impossible for anyone who knows me to say, “that girl MUST be straight.”
Even in the world of don’t-offend parenting, I got as far as I did because I tell the fucking truth. I might have the only parenting book to regularly drop the f-bomb. My entire brand is built on being not-blend-in-able.
Why did you make David a vampire, even though he told you no? Why did you keep hurting that woman, when she told you no, too? You always said that you only wanted people who were willing. You scared me. I’m going to try not to think about it.
It has been a ruthless summer and we have plenty of pent up aggression towards the cosmos, but there is no anger in the air. We’re engaging in one of punk’s most sacred rituals out of pure love for our fallen comrade.
“He walked over and poured a scotch and water. He walked into the bedroom with it, took off his shirt, pants, shoes, stockings. In his shorts he went to bed with the drink. It was 15 minutes to noon. No ambition, no talent, no chance.”
I know there are depressed people who are tired all the time and ones who cut themselves and ones who may or may not think about ending it. But in pop culture, there is only one kind of OCD, and Adrian Monk is just the latest version.
See, this way, I can prove I’m smart — an urgent need as I continue to fail spectacularly in French or algebra. I can prove it, in particular, to my Dad. Beat him at his own game, make him proud — it’s flawless logic, no?
She takes hold of her ebony Queen. I can’t help but admire the piece, its intricate details standing out against the contrasting background of her pale skin. “I can’t believe you gave up your advantage,” she says. She knew what I was going to do before I did it. It’s like she can see my future. But I can’t see hers.