Fuck society, fuck standards, fuck the norm. Fuck waiting, fuck judgement, fuck pretending. Fuck the word slut and everything it stands for. Fuck restraint, fuck pretentiousness, fuck expectations. Fuck yourself silly if you want to, fuck everyone around you if they want to. Double-fuck misogyny. Fuck the outdated, closed-minded, petty, freedomless, zombie-like, follow-the-baaaaaaah-sheep-like parade lest some poor demented soul with a twelve century old rule book up his ass judge you for not waiting until the third date.
Sometimes the rage comes on so thick it bitters the corners of my mouth into a never-ending spiral and the heat courses through my blood so I feel like I can just plunge my fist right through that oncoming train with considerably less effort than it would take to smile. And despite this inner apocalypse, I look straight ahead and hold the door open for that old lady and muster a smile that takes considerably more effort than it would to throw that train, because I can tell she’s been angry too. And though she’s a lifetime older than I’ll ever be, she has somehow found the strength to smile.
I want to know what he has in those bags. Actually, scratch that, I don’t.
So, let’s see if I’m following the progression of logic here. First, we need purpose. I read about purpose in a book once. Second, we’ll need money. You know, for condoms, because third, we all fuck ourselves silly which naturally leads to world peace. Not exactly sure where Wario comes in, but I hear he has a thing for Luigi.
Seen at the Union Square Holiday Market.
˙ʎʇıɔ uʍop ǝpısdn ʇsoɯ s,pןɹoʍ ǝɥʇ ɯoɹɟ sʎɐpıןoH ʎddɐH
Though I have no doubt this was vandalized to make a statement, I believe all they succeeded in doing was making an even more compelling image.
I’m so imprisoned by her eyes that I can’t even tell what color they are. She moves with - no, she doesn’t move…she glides, she graces, she caresses, and music is the only thing her movements resemble. Then she opens her mouth and it all goes away.
Observations on a train. He’s drunk off his ass and tells me I look like a stone cold killer. I don’t disagree. She’s sitting, he’s standing, and they’re still holding hands. He’s wearing a Brooklyn hoodie and looks rather badass, except for the fact that I can see his belly button. Vacant stares. You can tell who the tourists are because they’re the only ones watching the dudes swing from the railings, while everyone else is either secretly afraid of getting kicked in the face or hoping one of them falls. She has a really pretty handbag, except it’s covered in spikes and might as well say, “Fuck with me and I will swiss cheese your face”. There are a whole bunch of women with hoop earrings and I have a sudden cruel mental image of the chaos that would ensue if they all got linked together. The guy across from me is reading sheet music and conducting a Rumba symphony in the air. Some little kid keeps saying “Bing! Bong!” while the doors are still closed and everyone is suddenly officially confused. We’re below ground again and everyone collectively mourns the loss of their dearly departed cell phone signals. He has dreads and leaves a green bag near his seat and casually walks away. I follow him and get a few shots of his back just in case it’s a bomb. It’s not a bomb.