I like having a contagious smile on my face
I like wearing things that people notice
I like breaking the monotony of daily life, if only for a moment
I like acting goofy in public
I like speaking my mind
I like saying absurd things
I like the unexpected
I like colorful things
I like colorful people
I like making friends in unconventional ways

I like having dinner with my parents during the week

I like classical music

I like art films

I like philosophy and poetry
I like reading books that make me think
I like writing thought-out stories
I like writing nonsense
Or rather
I like nonsense in general

I am my passions, and I don’t need to meet anybody’s standards but my own, for my benefit.

Love it or leave it.

I am endearing.

“Walk with the dreamers, the believers, the courageous, the cheerful, the planners, the doers, the successful people with their heads in the clouds and their feet on the ground. Let their spirit ignite a fire within you to leave this world better than when you found it…”

― Wilferd Peterson

My penis is mine
I know this is true
But take off your pants
I might give him to you

Some days he is bigger
And others, quite smaller
And for those who give kisses
He sometimes grows taller

My penis is mine
Though, don’t misunderstand
For I’ll lend you my penis
…if you lend him your hand

it’s because they are all treasures.
they are quite literally entirely unique.
simply because I like them. 

or is it worse to wish you had died so they could pretend they were never going to leave you in the first place?

The Night We Went Out and Lynched Stupid Boys

by Michael Scorsby

“I think I might’ve loved him.”

“I know I love her.”

“I know. It’s all so dumb.”

“Love is horseshit,” he told her. “It makes people fucking stupid and nobody ever reciprocates properly.”

“He said he loved me and then he did this.”

“He’s fucking stupid.”

“Over a text!”

Two friends hold each other. He rummages through his cluttered mind to find words for her as she soaks his shoulder.

“Do I need to kick somebody’s ass?”

He feels her shake her head, nuzzling his chest.

“You know that all of us are stupid,” he continues, realizing he may be doing more harm than good. “Men. Boys. We’re all selfish and irrational in our own ways. Most of us don’t even realize it when we have a good thing. The rest of us know when we have a good thing and never get to really have it.”

“I’m sorry you love her so much,” she whispers to his heart.

“…so am I. But I’m not, at the same time.”

“…you shouldn’t be using this other girl. It’s not right.”

He can’t have much to say.

“I want her to tell me to not see her - to stop seeing her,” he says flatly. He doesn’t have much else to say.

“She won’t.”

“I know.”

Time won’t move if they stay there holding one another. 

She can feel his heart beat against her cheek -

“This pain sucks,” she exhales, each syllable rattling out of her body.

“Try feeling it every day.”

“Can today not be about you?”

They keep themselves there grasping desperately for protection. It’s internal and external. There is no romance left for anyone. Not now.

“I’m sorry,” because apologizing is all he can do.

It’s limbo. It’s far from heaven and too real to be hell. It’s turmoil and torture.

Let us form a lynch mob and go around stringing up these ignorant buffoons by their scrotums. We will find the boy who broke your heart and jam bamboo under his nails and then we will call him a coward. Then we can find the one who broke her heart so that I can have the satisfaction of seeing him in the kind of pain he put her through - we won’t tell anyone. Then, of course, we’ll have to turn our ropes and spurs and torches on me - because I know what I am and what I’m close to doing. Let’s castrate me and shave my head and soak me in alcohol then set my body ablaze. After I die, we can move away from all of this - somewhere warm where people won’t find us. We won’t even send postcards back home.

Maybe when we tell jokes our laughs won’t be hollow.

Maybe we’ll smile in earnest.

Maybe we’ll have dinner parties and laugh at one another when we bring a new prospective mate home to meet us.

Maybe, one day, we’ll die. Someone with a family will bury us next to one another - we’ll share a headstone.

Maybe she’ll come looking for me - she won’t. She’ll forget long before - and maybe he’ll look for you - he should. He will.

Maybe they’ll meet at our grave site. They might say “hello”, but not much else. They’ll stand there and know it is us, because, even though our names from a life we’d long forgotten will never appear, the people who knew us and caused us pain will know that it is us by the melodramatic engraving.

“Hear lie the Heavenly Damned.”

“He’s an idiot.”

“And she’s silly.”

“…wanna start drinking?”

“Yes.” 

Maybe I’m destined
To live my life lonely
Die without a friend
I doubt you’ll even know me
But you’ll hear the sound
As I fall to the ground
Cause I’ll shout it out loud

No pain no glory

I’m still kickin’ it
Don’t worry
And if you’re still listening
To this story
It is something for me
It’ll never bore me

No sacrifice
No  pain
No glory

And here it is
The story that never ends
I’ve been here before
Now I’m running back here again
Wasted in my mind
Depressing me over time
Love is like a roller-coaster
I’m just waiting in line