stars on your ceiling

The bitchiest text I ever sent was only three words long.
It was to an ex who'd just gotten fired and probably inhaled more THC than oxygen. I texted him to let him know that a smoke shop nearby was hiring. He never responded, because in retrospect, he was prob offended, or at least as offended as you can be while you're stoned. At the time, I honestly just figured he might like to know because we both liked the store.
The moral of this anecdote is not that I shouldn't have sent it and certainly not that I'm sorry. I just want to say that sometimes, even though we might not know that we mean what we say, we usually end up saying what needs to be said.
I think I'm actually making a decision for once? This blog post does not mean what you think it does.


"I developed a sense that meaning itself was resident in the rhythms of words and sentences and paragraphs, a technique for withholding whatever it was I thought or believed behind an increasingly impenetrable polish. The way I write is who I am,"


Love,
Loch.