Tick. tick. tick. tick. tick.
One of the weirdest things about literary criticism, now that post-modernism has left its indelible
“Ugh. No. ”
(tap, tap, tap, tap, tap)
I love cereal.
(tap, tap, tap, tap)
tick. tick. tick. tick.
tick. tick. tick. tick. tick.
Being single in the age of technology is sort of a weird exercise in emotional cartography. You don’t have to commit to the physical omnipresence of a relation-
ptisch. ptisch. ptisch. [phonetic depiction of forehead smashing against keyboard]
“Mmmmk. How bout:”
Isn’t it weird how the inner life gives regular physical objects weight and meaning? I think objects have two distinct, separate realities: One is their objective physical reality, whose characteristics can be measured and interpreted through the senses, and the other is an objects emotional density.
(fingers arrested over keyboard)
I’m going to the beach.