don't fear the reaper.
Television teaches me all the fascinating ways I could die. Books and letters from the scholars delineate the methods by which my brain will inevitably consume itself when I turn thirty. Somehow, I can't help but think that I should be more worried than I am, but I can't move myself to care about it anymore. I've since moved my glass to the bedside table, where the remnants of three dollar wine are slowly turned into water again by one of the many leaks in my top-floor apartment's ceiling.
I'm blowing smoke out my window into the storm. Ain't no Jesus coming for the girls like me.
Labels: cigarettes, death, girls, Jesus, wine
