If we somehow miss each other in the next few days, and I somehow forget to call you back, or I randomly send you a text that contains
a) Little to no sense or;
b) A disturbingly convincing and/or confusingly probable meaning of life;
but fail to respond your subsequently-and-increasingly-over-time furious inquiries, it's probably because I'm here;
both staring into space, wondering if I could somehow turn this blank space into a time machine that will inevitably transport me into a reality from which I may deduce whether or not all this paint-slinging was ever worth it in the first place; AND painting myself naked to the chagrine and secret behind-the-hand judgements of everyone I know that won't admit it, while simultaneously doing the same of myself, for the five-hundred-thousandth time,
(not much explanation necessary, but since I officially deem myself On The Spectrum Of Technology Incomprehension, you can click here for the linky-link)
wetting my proverbial Target Yoga pants awaiting your earth-shatteringly intimate and/or imperative questions on life, love, and what it's like to believe fiercly in aliens and vaguely that someday devising a way to wash your shirt's armpits in the sink will amount to something. Also, an invitation to talk about someone else's life and problems besides mine is always welcome. So like, stop being such an anonymous douche and talk to me, dammit.
Cheers to a heartbreakingly cold Monday in the Midwest, folks. Screw you, Florida.