I think I have that summertime sadness Lana Del Rey was singing about. How sunny does it have to be for me to kill myself, I wonder? Hahaha. Life is a punchline to a joke I didn't want to be told.
Today I met my cousins for the first time in ten years and I completely adore one of them in a massive way just because she's really lovely. And I got reprimanded by my father for drinking half a bottle of wine but he offered me the wine so I do not understand the issue and this post has been suitably awful with the worst sketch I've done ever. Urgh life. Just because indeed. Who am I, even? Awful. Inexcusable and shite. Nice to meet you.
(This was supposed to be posted on Sunday- fuck you, 00:00)
Here's something out of an impersonal sketchbook. It's the beginnings of a Jenny Saville transcription. That shit cray, what can I say? This is a testament to future failure. I never finish anything. I probably won't die. I'll probably enter a coma and they'll decide one day to turn off the machine. Because I never finish a thing.
Talk about it, talk about it. An ode to Urine Tract Infection. Make a song and dance about your disinterest in your lover, wearing such a perfect guise. You know what you want, but only at The End. At The End you want perfection, you want warmth. You want a man of furniture quality. Steadfast, reliable- always, always there. But for now? Cheap alcohol. Suppression. Confusion.
This is of Sasha Grey, the former porn star. It's unfinished (like me), and flat (not like me). Someone said they'd find me. I doubt that they have. What am I, Jesus? Am I the Way, the Truth, and the Life? I should take up sleep but not yet, not yet.
Maybe I should take up smoking, a skin care routine, quit drinking. Maybe I should get up in the mornings and arrive at places on time and maybe I should take an interest in my family. Maybe I should spend time studying and stop listening to music. Maybe I should start eating meat and wearing jeans. Maybe I should start going to church and listening to the radio.
