happiness is having a pencil.
Tonight is a perfect sort of night for a perfect sort of sadness that makes you realize that you are happy and you deserve it. Sometime and somewhere. It's, for overuse of the word, perfectly chilly out, riding a bike through the rain in a perfectly ugly blue rain jacket, with a can of hot cocoa mix in your pocket that was 5 dollars from the new glowing and bloated grocery store, and under bridges and pushing puddles and feeling safe, taking some Vicodin and a Xanax or two, unemployed, but not in the least discouraged because you're working hard and you don't mind, feeling sexless and sexy all at once, strumming a tune out in your mind to the rhythm of your own bloody heart, and admiring the circles in which we are running in over and over and over and over again.
I've had like, 10 cupcakes this week.
I've had like, 10 cupcakes this week.