QMA: Can you compare it to something? Something our readers may be able to relate to?
M: I don’t know—it’s not like I’m living with Bukowski or even Hemingway. T doesn’t drive his sadness into me. He pretends that it isn’t there. He lies. He’s a liar. The most delicate and useless of lies. He doesn’t call me a cunt or leave for months on end or drink himself into sadism. He lies. Imagine living with someone who is constantly trying to win a secret game against the known world. [long pause.] Maybe that’s even worse.
i realize it’s pretty lame to reblog your own post. that being said, i’ve come to terms with it because i’m bored and hard up for titles to write about. be kind and submit some, would you? i promise not to use it to write a story about pooping.
Reblogged from littleinstances|3 notes