My favorite color is orange and I look terrible in it.
I like the brightly colored type ones, so when I walk in public I get mistaken for a convict or traffic cone. They laugh, with or at me, which to be honest is the same thing. There’s only a six degree difference between what I believe and what everyone else has thought of me. Mistaken daemons I try desperately to ghost and live up to.
Tis the season- summer makes me hunger for what I like to eat. Great Gatsby and summer novel novelties, a couple glasses of wine stained status updates and I’m suddenly a habit. Called between the off hours of 10 and 12, not quite late enough to be desperate, not nearly early enough to take serious.
I let my phone ring like the jingle of my car keys. Riding hot like that chick with red riding hood, only my basket is full of opiodes and hashtags and I haven’t spoken to my grandma since they shot Tupac. Not so hot of a topic. Don’t lie like that t-shirt doesn’t make a real thing like self sacrifice seem awesome when it’s pleated. Making an ass of martyr’s, but damn, it looks good.
Che Guevera would have hated us, but I like the way you look terrible in it.
