I hate dust. Living in Isla Vista is like setting up a shanty insida a vacuum bag. I leave my stuff out for a week and when I retrieve it I feel like an Indiana Jones raching for a spider-covered idol in the back of some creepy temple.
At least there are no big rolling boulders to worry about.
Monday’s forecast: My readers are collecting dust. It was that kind of weekend.
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“dusty rusty crusty musty ass california hills”
“frowning in plaid (haunted radios, bird bones + anthropomorphized wind)”
“warming my hands on bridges i’ve burnt”
“songs that make me see god”
“My Playlist #236”
“classy wine moment and intellectual conversation”
“90s heroin chic model off duty”
“tweet tweet bird emoji map emoji”
“not my circus, not my monkeys”
“a grave is probably cheaper than an apartment”
“ATE THESE BITCHES LEFT NO CRUMBS / DID IT IN DESIGNER PUMPS”
