quibbling hipsterhood, documented!

I’m not longer the new kid at the office! We have a new employee!
Of course everyone is swarming over him because he’s fresh blood, but I am generally disinterested.
As if my wont.

While it’s no obligation of mine, I’m here to inform you that the past months of angsty and pining blogs are results of disinterest directed at me, if one can direct disinterest. I wouldn’t put it past him to find a way to do it. I feel like that shitty Greek myth where  that crazed bitch is being chased by some guy who wants to rape her, and then she asks a god to turn her into a tree because she either doesn’t feel like running anymore or else she’s trying to avoid being raped by aforementioned guy. Details are irrelevant (why the fuck a tree?); take that, and reverse it.
It’s new.
It’s bullshit.
My friend since kindergarten says I deserve it.

So that leaves me blogging at my kitchen table on a Monday afternoon, listening to an ex-boyfriend’s band for idiomatic shits and giggles. And to provide a hilarious counterpoint of a backdrop to my thoughts on my impending Vegas vacation. (Ten days left.)

“’cause you’re as close-to-perfect
as a close-to-perfect person can be [...]
when I feel like I’m hopelessly wandering in Tokyo,
I will call you,
and you can be my Scarlett, my foil.”

//////

“and all I can think about is letting out a perfect sound 
and all I can talk about is indie rock and roundabouts 
and all I can do is sit around, mope about, and listen to braid 
what a place you made.”

YEP. Let me brush off my shoulder a little bit, god damn it.
My blood pressure is up and this was futile to boot. It only makes me feel like a child.