Member-only story
A Conversation with the Personification of My Artistic Insecurities
Oh, hello, I didn’t see you there.
In my defense, your outfit is so bland and repressed I just assumed you were wallpaper.
Seriously, it looks like you probably dressed like the 2005 post-Rocket-Power westside skater punk you wanted to be like once when you were 13 but then your family made such a big weird deal about it that you took off your pyramid stud belt and never wore black again.
You know what you should do next time? Wear a leather jacket. Do you like mine? I don’t feel like a fraud when I wear it.
Everyone knows that girls who wear leather jackets, a simple shoulder covering made from the hide of a dead bovine, are inherently cooler and probably have lax attitudes towards monogamy, attachment and spontaneous butt stuff after dinner.
Do you mind if I smoke? Don’t answer that. I don’t care what you think. Or what anyone thinks. I just live. I’m the fun, sexy kind of mentally ill- not the kind that leaves work early to sleep for 13 hours because no one shared your work on the internet and That One Writer Who Always Copies You But Never Gets Called Out is positively rolling in accolades.
I’m probably the girl they wrote “Love Me Dead” about.
