hot sauce with a baby in hand

or Dog Douche gotta go.

the last time I saw this clown in my cafe, he tried to secretly buy me a coffee while his girlfriend waited outside with their dog. we have fucked one & a half times & the dog came after the second. He describes his needs as infectious. he's been watching my house. my roommates get freaked out. I'm not embarrassed for having been with him, I'm exclusively mortified he thinks I need his attention any more than I've already asked. We haven't fucked since February, only hugged twice since then. He's jealous of my purpleheart. The breaking point should have been the leash. As an intentionally audacious bitch, I resent casual acts if bawdiness. I told my purpleheart about the clown & he presented a means to an end.

anyway, hype feels like even more morose deflation of vibe. Beasts of hype look exclusively like mourners. The post-hip of personal aesthetic. There is nothing spectacular about my style, it's that I even attempt one that renders me standout. sometimes I do just be throwing on clothes. I don't need to pretend to not care about fashion. but my language for most things begins with the optics or fashion is the color of all my commentary.

the clown, the hype, the unsettling into Fall. fucking seasons, yo. no more spring & summer every other day. how many times can I reference an award-winning musical? Bill T. Jones is one of the greatest choreographers of all time. I don't know when I stopped dreaming of stages. Now I long for transmission, stream me live.