I found a ladybug in the fold of the collar of my shirt–it had been there all day–and when I took the shirt out to iron it the next day the ladybug was only half there. It was really beautiful.
I have this box that opens on the right hand side instead of the left and it freaks me out every time I try to look inside it to see what I know is already there I forget and feel like I’m trying to learn to read from right to left.
Music doesn’t satisfy but it’s not the music’s fault. Fucking Red Hot Chili Peppers on shuffle, the only time they come up, haven’t satisfied in a long time.
Pablo Neruda sits between a comic book called Tales Too Ticklish to Tell and Akira #6 staring at me, wondering, “Why can’t you write like this? It’s so easy.” I don’t have an answer for him.
I realize that the idea of a front of something is a completely ridiculous idea, perpetuated by action, not essence. Usual action even, not recent or current, just usual. Whatever’s the norm.
It seems pretentious to name the cluster that will occur when Andromeda and the Milky Way collide. Also, the Milky Way is one of the dumber names we’ve given things in the universe. There are cool names like The Great Attractor or the Eridanus Supervoid. But we got stuck with the stupid Milky Way. I don’t even like milk.
Finally, I just entered this into a Bullshit Index Indicator and it turns out that this post is less than 4 per cent bullshit. Go figure.