chardonnay.
so i like to drink pink wine at 3 in the afternoon.
so i stare out the window at the mountains when i'm supposed to be writing.
so i don't make my bed for days at a time.
so i sneak a few peeks, & daydream about "what it would be like...".
so things aren't always perfect, not boyfriends, not outfits.
so life's pointless; what's so wrong with that?