Small, Medium, Large.
Small, Medium, Large.
Pipes - Sleeping
Imagine if every stamp you’ve ever received at a club was permanent. Collected like scars on your wrist, they map out each and every time you tried. You open your eyes on a Sunday morning, at an hour far earlier than you wish, disappointed that last night’s adventures didn’t make it all better. Head pounding, stomach upset, bed empty. Coins, keys and gum are strewn on the table to your left, your loyal companions on journeys of the day and the night. They’ve seen you at your most glorious, they’ve seen you at your most depraved. Nothing makes it better, not even happiness. It’s not a fair fight when your chemistry’s designed to work against you, but if it’s all you’ve ever known then it’s just business as usual. You pace back and forth hoping for it to lift. But it doesn’t lift, not ever.
There’s no easy way to say it, no good segway in the conversation. Supreme con-artist by day, deranged outpatient by night. No one can know so you self-medicate in the dark, fiendishly trying every potion on the market. Nothing works long enough for you to experience the other side so in the shadows you stay. The cold keeping you warm by virtue of familiarity. Rationalizing the crazy, you convince yourself that it’s just a product of your twenties, a generation of anxious beasts. You say stupid things at dinner parties and people nod approvingly, well-dressed idiots unaware that you’re two thoughts away from swallowing the entire prescription. You’re not made of glass but of wax. Morphed into the third and fourth versions of yourself, melting into every crevice in your wake. Taking shape of every other pair of lips you kiss. You molest their skin like a gambler betting it all on a hunch that today’s finally his day. You take what you can get and you say thank you. Others have it far worse, after all.
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I dreamt that Marion Cotillard was angry with me so I texted Anna Wintour to help me get a hold of her but she told that I didn’t have time cause I had to fly to Japan to present Michelle Kwan with an award, which I did in fluent Japanese.
What’s my subconscious trying to tell me, besides the fact that I’m stupendously gay?
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