I’ve got nothing. The editor is open right in front of my eyes and I stare at the screen, eyes tired and leaky or maybe it’s just the existential dread making it’s way out.
Love is in the air, sex is everywhere and both are overrated. There’s no point in writing about them. Maybe I should start writing a fairy tale that justifies sexual abuse in the name of magic, luck and love and call it destiny. Angels don’t have wings, devils don’t have horns; neither exist.
I smell fart. Is this love? Why, you ask? Because it’s in the air. Nevermind. Whatever. Fuck. Shit.
Ugh. I got nothing.