yo, that's wack if i'm not the baddest


profile * old * mail * fucking sign it* or how about a nice note? you go forward / i'll go backwards


sipping freezerburned coffee in a downtown apartment with brick walls and posters of frank sinatra and wrapping my curly hair around my fingers and keeping from fainting by thinking about fucking jarvis cocker. m. jeremy is in a hungover state and he's not into this apartment and he's flipping through a book and i'm thinking he's not looking as young as he used to. ten years from now he'll have grey hairs in peculiar places and cabinets of dye just for men. he'll be living in california. i'll be wrapped in blankets on the couch of an apartment in the north, clawing sheets because i have no sex life and i've become accustomed to invisable lovers.

d-land