pieces of a whole

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“I hate that I can see the back of his head and I hate even more that he does not look back at me once. My eyes dart between the Flamenco dancer, the guitarist, the singer, and the back of his head for an hour and forty minutes. It feels like my insides are being ripped out, lying to dry on the table, soaking in sangria.

I stare blankly at the table watching the ghosts of my vulnerabilities morph into tangible centerpieces, while the entire room applauds.”

Los Angeles, Word Vomit



I’m working long hours. By long hours I mean the same hours 95% of this population works. So, take my exaggerations lightly. Waze has taken me a different route to and from work every day since I started, so I have no idea where I’m going. I can’t wait for my data to be cut off, which will undoubtedly happen within the next couple weeks. Then this gets really fun.