stray fragments

If love is an art form, what is its masterpiece?

flipping through old journals as part of my pact to keep on nodding terms with the person I used to be, whether I like her or not.

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—“We’ll never find happiness!”
—“I guess we just have to be happy without it!”

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“How did I get from fantasies of being the STAR OF THE ART WORLD to being a grocery store clerk?” —"Have faith in your detours," says Marina.

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Plants are the hairs of planets, and stars are the dandruff of flaky skulls.

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If love is an art form, what is its masterpiece?

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Ash: "Am I making you cringe?"
Jaydra: "Talk of love is always cringe." 

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“It’s impossible to blackmail you because everything is already online.”

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I was in awe of the grocery bagger—
a woman in line exclaimed, 
“He’s the best bagger in the universe! 
I’ve seen him do it before!”

Anything done well is a form of art.

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Get back to people who have reached out to you. Take care of the people who have taken care of you. (haven’t been the best at doing this)

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Don't run away. Return to the place you have fled.

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I feel like I’m on a road trip and I’m asking my parents, “Are we there yet?” except I’m with God.

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I haven’t watched porn in several years. Despite this, my spam folder is filled with emails from sex bots. Today’s subject line: “She imagines her fingers in your hair,” which I misread as “She imagines fingers in your hair.”

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I imagine pulling fingers out of my hair.

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Art is an excuse to love that which we are encouraged to neglect: the people, places and things that we encounter every day, who lack novelty and don’t redound to our glory.

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Re-reading an old email correspondence with Vince:

I don’t know where my former, competitive ambition went… I shed it like a snake skin, and now I don’t know what to do with this new self, who can’t even bother to try to be the best at something.

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So quiet she could hear her blood speak.

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I dream that I’m at my dad’s old home on Barkley Meadows Circle. I try to use the bathroom but there are several enormous, football-sized turds in the bowl. I flush the toilet and it overflows. The whole downstairs is flooded with fecal water. I am disgusted. Later, I discover that the pooper was an old coworker from Powell’s.

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Let the boredom resume.

P.G.O.A.T. — My grandma is the Prettiest Girl of All Time