This was 5 am seven months ago before I got on a plane to France. When I got to France, I wasn’t scared and I didn’t care about anything. I didn’t know the difference between saying ‘nice’ ‘nice’ and ‘nice’ in French and used ‘you’re so nice’ when I meant ‘you’re so nice.’
I wish my gash were sore, but it’s just normal. Today I am up at 5 in the morning the night before the night before I move to Paris and say goodbye to my home here. I don’t want to say goodbye, but I also want to move on. In moving on, I get old, and I don’t want to get old, but in not wanting to get old, I am like everyone else in this world, and in being like everyone else in this world, I feel unsettled because true things unseat me.
Here I am smelling the underwear of someone I love and also rubbing it up against my cheek, and in the background you can see a bowl I washed, some olive oil I cooked with a roll of toilet paper I use to store boogers I have picked myself, and a bottle of wine I drank over a period of three or four days. In the picture above, you can probably tell I am in love. I’m not, though.
Just kidding, I am!