Something about my life force attracts negative shit around the holidays. I think I visualize it and therefore it becomes my reality. The boys I don't think will work with my insanity very well are the exact same ones who wriggle their way into my head and demand to stay there until I break down and want them back. Pretty boys with their pretty
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Not like you, though, I can't seem to get you out of my head lately.
Missing you.
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Sorry. Hi. I miss you like... umm... like Fallwell misses the point, Sadler.
Are you writing? I am. Mostly shit. But I'm writing.
And I'm in Boulder. Then Paris. Then Italy. Until May. But come May: I'll sing your Martin to sleep with sweet Italian nothings until it contracts a permanent romantic accent. So... be in New York, or be a big fat dork. Eh?
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