Praxis

People (one person, that one time) say to me that I should be more like that (modestly dressed), which I hear, I really do, don’t get me wrong, but — and yes, you know what that means — I think (not really thinking though is it) they are perhaps, with the best of intentions, nevertheless, mistaking one thing (me) for another thing (someone who cares) and that this, though for the best (most ordinary) possible motives has led them to take what I can only describe as a cuntish approach to the issue, which if left hanging, will cause them (him) to assume an aura (reddish) of false superiority (like he could ever kiss my shoes, but you know).

Oh, you don’t? I should explain (obligation not promise) about him. I’m sure I will, but you’ll have to forgive me (or at least keep reading) but a shitbag that baggy and full of it (shit) can’t really be described concisely (this isn’t about you and I’m not selling books) so I won’t.

You’ll find out when we get there and through other means (inference, guesswork, triggered traumas) but right now I am catching a bus, like it’s 1995 or smth (idc if you cba to catch yourself up, I’m already old) which I love (I can afford) by the way (forsooth and heretofore) because it’s full of people (the absolute fuckers) and because I can feel like I’m really part of the city, you know (Jesus Christ, someone put a bullet or a doughnut in this bitch).

Seriously, I love living in the city (I have no choice), I love the vibrancy (fucking noise) and the fact that, even in the midst of squalor (your bedroom) I can find peace and…