birdbath

She comes to your apartment, immediately asking "Can I smoke in here?" as she is already lighting a Camel Crush, ashing it directly onto your coffee table. She crushes up an Adderall with an H&M giftcard that has $50 on it that she'll never spend. On her cracked iPhone with a Hello Kitty case, she shows you pictures of the paintings she's been doing. The good ones look like abstract vaginas, probably by accident, and the bad ones look like mythological stoner sluts drawn by a sad child who was exposed to TikTok early in their development. She is snorting the Adderall as she tells you that her parents won't get off her back about dropping out of liberal arts school. You are exhausted, hours must have gone by. She's been here for 10 minutes. You know, with chilling certainty, you are going to do everything in your power to date her for at least 6 months. The pussy will be nothing exceptional, you're just tired of being alone.

Strolling along the vegan bourgeoisie part of the city with a Tinder date who accepts my 5’10 stature as being close enough to 6’ with extra insoles in my shoes. Everyone around here wears clothes that seem to be washed after each use and I wonder if they can pick up hints of my propensity for schizo-fascist ideations from the subtle olfactory dogwhistles embedded in my scent. We got ice cream, $22 for two cones. I’ll recoup my losses by plucking a handful of pills from her medicine cabinet later. A curious old beat-up van drives by, leaving a trail of nostalgia in its wake of gasoline fumes which prompts me to open up about my past, even if it means breaking my enigmatic sigma facade which has a 60% success rate in securing something asphyxiation related on outings such as these which help me release DMT naturally in order to catch a glimpse of the man behind the curtain who’s been harvesting my vril and sending it to fund the astral equivalent of Israel. So i begin I telling this sweet little nursing student midwit how I once owned a similar van, in which I removed the backseats & devised an elaborate harness system of rope & velcro in order to affix consenting womenfolk to the ceiling while I’d sit lotus-style underneath. Sometimes in this position I’d feel the hair on my crown chakra being brushed or braided by the girl hovering above like a black widow spider trying to coax me into her web with the promise of erotic annihilation. I refused to use any type of knot which is taught in Boy Scouts after what happened to me there, so the rope would occasionally come loose & then I’d hear the velcro slowly start to give way, making that rough ripping sound which would coincide with the sensation of my familiar worldview being torn asunder, causing me to lay down and hope the impact of her landing would suffice to send me through the rusted floor, freeing me from this jerry-rigged tantric sex cage which is sort of like a Hot Tub Time Machine situation if it was directed by a cat-dog hybrid of Quentin Tarantino & Stanley Kubrick. Sometimes I’d just smoke weed in there and watch movies on a little TV, but I can’t smoke the stuff they grow nowadays, it makes me feel psychotic.