ha tu as un chéquier. Bon soigne bien
ta petite oreille et utilise pleins d’oreillers
pour dormir.
Gus Van Sant and Bret Easton Ellis Team to Write Suicide Film
Wow. This is unbelievably awesome news.
Rich crazy people + suicide + BEE = YES.
Please allow me to correct something:
Rich crazy people + suicide + BEE + GVS = YES.
Running
Oh, shit—is that my motherfucking bus? Shit, shit, shit—I’m a whole fucking block away. I’ll just start walking really fast. Ah, fuck. I can’t be late again. I can’t. I’ve been fucking late the last two days and they’ll fucking fire me. It’s a stupid temp job, but still—I have to make rent this month. I can’t ask Mom and Dad to spot me again or they’ll think I’m a deadbeat. Oh, shit—this bag is so fucking heavy. Why the hell did I have to bring this fucking mammoth Philip K. Dick anthology? And my flask. Maybe I should run? Oh, fuck, I look like an idiot. I will not pump my arms like some kind of obese power walker. I will not. Hands at sides. Hands at sides. Shit! Stitch in my side, stitch in my side, stitch.in.my.side. I can’t breathe. Maybe I should stop smoking. Maybe I should stop drinking. Maybe I should, like, start exercising somehow. Oh, fuck. My feet hurt. These Vans are not made for running. Gonna stop now. Hands on knees. Breathe. Shit. Goodbye motherfucking bus. Oh, fuck that fucking job. Seems like a good day for some day-drinking. I deserve it. I fucking exercised.
(Photo)





