I'm too lazy to write anything like I usually do (eccentric/overlysatirical/slightlydisturbing) so I'm going to write an excerpt from something I found in my sketchbook journal. By the by, who wants to buy me these shoes? My email is over there --> or you can reach me via phone call, my number is 1888DESPRIT. Thanks. Anyways, right, the excerpt.
Her eyes told me something. A silent strife, subjectively weeping in the most crucial manner. It meant something. Not only to her but also to me. My sympathies began to well underneath my chest, and I impulsively took her hand in my own.
"It's going to be all right" I told her, and suddenly objectivity took its toll and she was wearing her heart on her torn up sleeve. And I joined her in her anguish, the sruggle to grasp the reassurance. We wept and held onto each others hand as tightly as we could, as if our hands were the concrete form of my previously uttered statement.
I probably wrote this in a delusional state because typically my writing is shit in comparison. Oh, and the picture of me is from a few weeks back. Yes, I realize those glasses have no lenses in them. If I had a nickel for every time I've said that I would be able to buy every pair of the Chanel gun shoes that were ever made and rent out an empty pool and go to town via diving board.