I Miss Your Mom As Much As I Miss You
I dream about being friends with your mother.
I dream about being friends with your mother.
I intended to just give myself a black eye. I looked up pictures on the internet, trying to figure out how to get the shading just right.
It is one of the only successful sample of strings since, like, Aphex Twin.
Whatever the case may be in the Chinese production of black-market DVDs, my companion friendship-harpooned my fantasies that night and forever: instead of inhabiting glamor, I was the same old me, with my hopes of a night spent canoodling and dissecting a thought-provoking foreign film burning a hole in my bag.
I was a few months into being 20 years old when I spoke to my mom for the last time.
Remember that time after months of silence you sent me a card on my birthday to “show me you still care.” Even though you had a new girlfriend.
He becomes a pitiful, self-loathing mess. He’s sad and diminished and not the confident, headstrong man I know.
Ever since I was a little kid, I have made serious efforts to being liked in spite of my looks.
I’m gay. I’ve known and felt it since I was 15 years old.
There was smoke in the air, as there always has been. I looked through the translucent haze to find her sitting next to me. I held my breath and wondered how much time she had.