I have a song stuck in my head that I enjoyed as a teenager, but now I see it for what it is: terrible. It’s unlistenable, yet internally repeating.
That grating voice, those instruments taking polite turns—all rhythmic jabs, waking up the worst of me. I’m ashamed of my former ignorance; my current snobbery.
This is not divine madness. It’s a gooey trap I set for myself over thirty years ago with a CD on repeat and no other plans.
Plans. I must make plans. I plan to find the back that keeps falling off my naked people earrings. I plan to read more. Write more.
Bunny D and Lady Tigra, please rid me of that haunting cliché that's somehow about a dying relationship, and not a dying girl.
Ah. Thank you. I plan to investigate jacket pins.
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