A record player in my mind kept this song on repeat at work today. I figured I would be the culprit of dawning everyone else with a similar situation.
"Red wine and sleeping pills
Help me get back to your arms
Cheap sex and sad films
Help me get where I belong
I think you're crazy, maybe
I think you're crazy, maybe
Stop sending letters
Letters always get burned
It's not like the movies
They fed us on little white lies
I think you're crazy, maybe
I think you're crazy, maybe
I will see you in the next life"
My thoughts are racing and continue reproducing exponentially. It is as if my thoughts, those figurative little shits, have finally unlocked the wonders of sexual intercourse and have therefore, in turn, begun fucking any other thought that crosses their way. The bi-product is yet another, little shit, that just sucks away at my day, milking off of everything possible.
Reproduction is a terrifying thing.
-Mon
this is fantastic. <3
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