The power went out in my apartment building again last week! I was already running late, and I had to go back upstairs in the dark to tell the maintenance guy to manually open the garage gate so I could get to fucking work already. This has happened three times in less than two months! And these are only the incidents that I know of, because I spend less than 50% of my time in this apartment (unless a burglar is reading this, in which case I’m home all the time. Plus I always keep my sharpest pair of fabric scissors within reach. And I’m not afraid to cut you.)
Once I get my new car situation settled, I’m moving out of this overpriced shit hole and torching it on yelp!
The act of trying to forget someone is a futile one. In order to do so, you are forced to remember. It’s like dieting. Like trying your hardest not to think about food, while weighing every ounce and counting every calorie.
I suppose in the end it’s almost too easy to look back and say what you should have done, how you might have changed things. What’s harder—what’s much, much harder—is to accept what you actually did do.
I wanted to tell you all my secrets, but you became one of them instead.
There’s a cafe in Los Feliz that has a table with drawers full of secrets inside. I didn’t leave one of my own tonight, partly because neither of us had a pen, but mostly because I was afraid someone I knew would find my note and recognize my impeccable penmanship.