what if you’d become the model you seemed secretly destined when we were kids to be and ended up on the perpetually adolescent arm of some sultry interminable troubadour contemptuously entitled to his own terrible el jefe reputation and I wouldn’t be able to watch though I’d sure as hell dreadly look from time to glancing time and oh how damn debaucherized imagination’d surely make me sick to my jealous self-spiteful over-adjectivized stomach thinking she’s still way too fucking beautiful to be paid for appearances just like always and how’d I ever let that ship sail

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About mischa

I write things about stuff, and sometimes stuff about things. Depends on the day.