Category Archives: 2013

Colorblind by Elizabeth Archer

She had grown to love the dark. Grown to love her dark mornings and dark evenings, dipped in black and glazed over with the familiar buzz of everything around her. All she knew was black. Her reds and yellows and violets were black. So were her sunsets, pink balloons and front yard full of sunflowers and marigolds. And yet, she had grown accustomed to her black curtains. She was used to hearing only the sounds of voices and the touch of the gentle world around her.

Sometimes, if she shined her father’s flashlight from under the sink and pointed it at her eyes, her black curtain would lift ever slightly, and become a lighter dark. This lighter dark was called “grey.” Black and grey. This was her pallet, and she had grown to find comfort in her boat, floating through her sea of darkness.

Her parents didn’t want her to go to school like all the other kids who could see the differences between their reds and yellows and violets. “It’d be difficult. You don’t want that. There are others options.” Options the girl didn’t want to pursue. She knew she could battle the light, live in her speck of dark and live amongst those who could see and experience what she heard and what she touched.

She asked her mother what she looked like once, reaching out to touch her mother’s face, then her own, running her fingers from her forehead to her chin. “Well, you’re beautiful,” her mother replied, touching her daughter’s hand.

“What color is that?” asked the girl.

At night, she was told the world mimicked her black curtains. The light was extinguished from the sky and replaced with her sea of black. At night the girl didn’t feel like was missing out. At last, the rest of the word experienced what she experienced, felt what she felt, and saw what she saw.

(Ridiculous) Craigslist Ad by Rebecca D.

Awkward male, 24, will trade 50+ Jesus and Christian figurines, drawings, paintings, etc. for Satanist books or tips on how to get girls

Don’t get me wrong. Jesus is great. He’s fun, he manages to sleep for three days and convince people he’s the messiah, and he’s like the Houdini of the early BCE. However, after many restless nights asking Jesus to bring me a hot lady friend, all I got was the ugly brunette who spat (spitted? Spat) in my latte after I wink at her. I mean, it would’ve worked had I actually been able to wink! I just kinda stood there awkwardly blinking while the twelve year old behind me kicked my purple cowboy boots and screeched, in his twelve year old way, “I need my morning expresso you freak!” Seriously? You’re barely old enough to eat animal crackers and solid foods! But I digress.

So after a very solid week of praying to Jesus for a girlfriend, (by the way, all the single ladies out there, I can’t wink, I’m 24 and never been kissed, and I live with two live cats and one dissected one, but I am single and ready to mingle!) I have concluded that Jesus clearly doesn’t care about my well being. I don’t care if Jesus loves me! I need a girlfriend….and I’m getting desperate…but back to my point.

So I figured, hey, Satan managed to abduct a woman and get her to live with him in the underworld for like, seven months out of the year, so I decided to give Satanism a try. Satan got a girl, so can I. Now, at this point you may be getting worried. But I will put your mind at ease. The Jesus figurines and pictures have not been tainted by my new found Satanism. They are in perfect condition except for the Virgin Mary that has lost her head after I threw at a wall in frustration. If you would prefer I don’t send the Mary statue…I still will. Seriously, I need this Jesus junk off my hands.

If any of you have tips for getting girls or hints on Satanism, I will take it. But seriously though, how did Satan end up with Persephone? Something about a pomegranate? So I got those, and still no one has arrived at my house. So, if anyone wants my Jesus paraphernalia, I will trade it for help getting a girlfriend or becoming a Satanist. Thank you for reading my post, and have a great day! Except that couple who always makes out in line at the Starbucks. I’ll see you in Hell, when I’m best friends with Satan! So long, suckers!

White Walls by Elizabeth Archer

The two were alone in the room. A brooding silence hung above the wooden rafters and clung to her coat like smoke. The front door stood ajar from where she last left it. The decision had come quickly and all at once, like one of her steady, onset migraines. The room seemed to lurch and falter as she reached for her knife. As a little girl she had spent her childhood and well into adolescence away in the forest with her grandfather. He taught her how to hunt, to fish to survive on her own. He gave her a knife with a hand crafted, whalebone handle. For a long time the knife had been her only companion besides her aging grandfather: a thin, sharp knife with the power to become a weapon as well as a tool. She had used the knife to kill a bird once. With her grandfather’s papery hands he smeared her face beneath the underbrush waiting for a sparrow. With a thrust of her wrist the little girl sent the knife hurtling through the air, landing thick in the heart of the bird—staining its pale blue feathers with a deep red.

The girl looked around the quiet apartment. She looked down at her knife, its blade worn thin from relentless use. A dog barked in the distance. A week earlier, her knife had killed. It had only been two years since the ward. Of course, grandfather had persuaded her to leave the quiet comfort oh his cabin under one condition. To enroll in the ward in upstate New York, far from what she knew, far from the cry of the wolves and the smell of damp wood. New York had its own wolves—own smells.

He had given her the knife to take with her. She could still remember his hushed voice as he gave her one more hug. “Tuck it in your boot and keep it under your pillow.” The girl took a step towards the rocking chair. He sat quietly, acknowledging her presence. She took a shaky step, pointing the knife in his direction. The light from the overhead lamp gleamed off the hilt, reflecting light onto his barren walls. Her knife had found a way to kill and now she found a way to kill again. He had done all he could, yet not enough.

“Claire—“ he breathed, his voice old and weathered from the years of mountain air. And with a flick of her wrist, just as he had taught her kill before, she threw the knife in his direction. Her aim was just as accurate.

CUPIO DISSOLVI by George Dell

CUPIO DISSOLVI

By George Dell (B. 7/31/95)

Most people called him Bill, but his friends called him Billy. They would, if he had any. Billy lived in Antioch, California, in a small white house with his mother and his step dad, Scott. From his room he all he could see was a fence, some dead grass, and a small reservoir. Some days, Billy let his mind wander, while he watched the scintillas of sunlight dance on the water. The reservoir was the only beautiful thing in his life, besides his soul, and that had been ailing ever since he had met Scott.

During the week he attended school, biked home and watched TV. During the weekends he watched more TV. When Scott was in a bad mood, he went on long bike rides. Sometimes he would spend the whole day riding around aimlessly, searching vaguely for the slightest amity in the wastes.

 

His father had left before he was born, and Billy thought of him sometimes, and wondered why he left. He never drew up the courage to ask his mother, and she never spoke of his father.

Billy didn’t like Scott, because Scott hated Billy. On the first day Billy’s mother had brought Scott home, Billy had opened the door and said hello. Billy was yearning for a man to act like a father to him.

Scott grimaced at him, and said to Billy’s mother.

“I didn’t know you had a kid.” Scott knew he wouldn’t find a girl as nice as her again, so he stayed with her. At best, he saw Billy as a negative on a cost/benefit analysis, and at worst, as a genuine impediment to his enjoyment of life.

Sometimes, when Scott was drunk or in a bad mood, he would hit Billy with his belt. It hurt a lot, and it made him very angry. He tried not to cry when it was happening, because if he did, then Scott would beat him harder. He didn’t know why Scott did it. Most of the time it was for little things that Billy had forgotten to do, like taking out the trash, or feeding the dog. Sometimes he didn’t say why he did it, and that drove Billy crazy.

Billy didn’t know what to do with all the anger he felt, so it went everywhere, including himself. He was the angriest boy in Antioch. He spat on teachers, gave rude gestures to police, and broke a lot of nice things, no matter where he was. On time, late at night, he took a rock and threw it through a store window.

He was caught, and he spent the night in jail. He didn’t sleep at all. It felt like his heart was a furnace, that it was going to grow so hot that it would melt out through his chest. He wished that it would.

His hatred burnt so ferociously and impotently that, by the time the sun came up, he was wishing for death.

 

It was about nine in the morning. At the station, they had called his parents, and for the first time since he was six years old, Billy prayed to god. Scott picked up the phone, and Billy became an atheist.

Scott was curt on the phone with police. It was quiet enough in the station that Billy could hear everything he said.

“Let him walk home, think about what he’s done.”

It was the middle of may, and everything outside was blooming. School would be ending soon, and Billy would probably be held back. He was failing most of his classes. He didn’t care. He didn’t care about anything.

Billy felt like he had been falling his entire life. He had had a vague feeling of anticipation, a strange yearning for the feeling of his feet pressing against the smooth black floor of the absolute bottom of perfect anguish. He wanted to feel the certainty, the knowledge of the light at the end of the tunnel, the feeling that it could only get better.

But every time he fell lower, he had known that it was not the end, that there was a darker shade of black, just beyond his vision.

As he stood in the late morning glare, looking at the front door of the only home he had ever known, his skin crawling with fear, he felt a horrible sense of satisfaction.

It can’t get worse than this, he thought. Nothing could be worse than this.

He was wrong. Scott gave him a bad beating, worse than he had ever gotten before, but he had been expecting that. What made it awful was that Scott made Billy’s mother watch while he did it. Scott had been talking to Billy’s mother, about discipline, and how important it was in the healthy development of a young man.

“Sometimes you have to give them a little tough love.” He said, and Billy’s mother was so tired from all that she did that she hardly listened, and she didn’t speak but to show her assent. Such is the power of love.

Scott hit Billy dozens of times all over, hard, and each time he was hit, he cried louder, until he was wailing, plaintively. His cry was so raw and heart rending that it would have brought almost anybody to tears. But Scott had Billy’s mother convinced, and she was unmoved, and Scott was a jackal, and he could not be moved.

When it was all over, the silence was deafening. Billy trembled.

“Now go to your room.”

He walked to his room and left the door open. He lay on his bed and stared at the ceiling. He looked at the texture of the ceiling and his mind was as formless and shapeless as the space between the stars.

 

The sun had long since gone down before he stirred again.

Scott called him to dinner, but he didn’t get any. He had to watch Scott and his mother eat. The last time he had eaten was noon the day before. He had had a pop tart.

He wasn’t hungry.

After dinner was over, he did the dishes. He didn’t hate his life anymore. He didn’t care. He thought nothing, felt nothing, desired nothing. Though his body was young, and he had smooth skin and clear green eyes, he was as dead inside as the surface of the moon. He washed the last dish and placed it in the drying rack.There was a window above the sink, and through it, he saw the stars. They were suspended in the sky, motionless, indomitable, and eternal. Billy felt something stir within him. His dying, anguished soul reached out toward the stars with a strength that felt superhuman. Through the window, Billy could see a star shining, brighter than all the others. Billy locked his gaze on it, drew up all his suffering, and wished, more fervently than any being had wished before, that he could go to that blazing diamond in the night, and escape all that had ever hurt him, that he could live at such a distance to the sins of his miserable, feeble world, that nothing would touch him again, and that things could be like they were before, when he was much younger, and had been happy, and the universe hiccuped, and across the measureless leagues he was transported, miraculously, impossibly, to a clearing of purple grass on a world that no other man would see for six hundred and fifty million years.

Billy fell upon the ground, understanding nothing. He shut his eyes reflexively, the animal in his nature assuming he had been struck by lightning, or hit by a bomb, or that something had destroyed the earth.

He lay on the ground in that silent forest for several minutes, trembling in fear.

 

When he finally looked to see where he was, he couldn’t believe his eyes. It’s hard to describe in terrestrial terms the surface of the planet he was on. Imagine a forest of sentient fractals, the color of soap bubbles, fighting and loving one another the way man does, but in four dimensions instead of three. Their speech was like elongated birdsong, and what they didn’t say, they projected into thoughts which, when they chanced to penetrate Billy’s blood-brain barrier, confused him utterly.

Billy looked up at the bright red sky, at the flat, sharp edged cyan clouds, at the oceans of life in the sky, and realized that his wish had been granted. He gasped, and was astonished to find that he could feel the air in his lungs. He could feel again. For the first time in his life, he wept with joy.

The water from his eyes fell from his face and, hissing, burnt the grass he was laying on.

 

What Billy had experienced only happened about once per every hundred billion Kalpa.

A Kalpa is a cycle. It encompasses the life of a universe, stretching from the birth of all matter to the time when the last of the supermassive black holes evaporates into silent echoes of matter in the void. In this Kalpa, a hole in the universe opened up in Antioch, and above the clearing on the distant planet at the same time. Billy had fallen through it, unknowingly luckier than any other being who would ever live.

 

On his first day on that strange world, Billy didn’t explore far from the clearing. He was mesmerized by the movements in the sky, and didn’t move until his hunger compelled him to.

He roamed a ways, and found some strange foods which satiated his metabolism, as well as his appetite. He ate and wandered.

Nothing tried to kill him. Nothing even noticed him. If he was ever harmed on that bright purple world, it was either through his own incompetence, or through sheer accident.

For the most part, he was as incomprehensible to the aliens as they were to him. They received him the same way an unusually large gust of wind would be received here.

They didn’t even notice him until he was 27 years old.

 

By that time, Billy had grown a long, coarse black beard. His hair went nearly down to his ankles, and his clothes had all long since worn away. It was usually rather hot on the planet, and the “ground” was spongy and soft, so he didn’t need them anyway. On earth, he would be considered insane, but on the new world he was on, he could do nothing that would get the flying fractal’s attention. He had tried several times before.

On that day, he was bouncing happily along, singing to himself in a nonsense language that he had made up.

He had forgotten almost everything about the earth, and had acclimated himself to a hermit’s life. The only times he could remember his former life were in his dreams, and he usually forgot those soon after he awoke.

He let out a particularly loud hoot, jumped hard, and flew through the air. The spongy ground caught him, and he was uninjured. He laughed to himself.

His only regret about his new life was his loneliness. He had tried to talk to the life on the sponge layer, but they told him nothing that he didn’t already know, and eventually, refused to speak to him at all. Undaunted, he talked to the sponge itself, but it didn’t have anything interesting to say either.

So he had wandered the spongy earth, bouncing idly, composing strange songs with nonsense words, and things had stayed largely the same.

On the horizon something fluttered, catching Billy’s eye. He squinted, and was shocked to see a fractal falling from the sky on some errand that was incomprehensible to the human mind. He ran towards the fractal’s landing site, hoping that it would talk to him.

 

When he arrived, he found the fractal boiling somberly. It had elongated itself into a spiral helix, and was undulating wildly. Billy had seen a fractal do something like that before, but he had no clue what it meant. He had given up on meaning, in general.

He cried out “Cloogaloo baloo magoo!” Which meant: “Hello! Tell me a little bit about yourself.”

The creature started at the sound of his voice. It sensed him for a while, then flew back up into the sky.

Billy growled some invented obscenity, and fell to the ground, dejected. He rolled over petulantly, and followed the fractal as it ascended into the sky. He cursed it a little more, for good measure, and his mood suddenly changed. He saw the fractal gather its friends, and the whole mass of them suddenly began to descend towards him. Billy went crazy with excitement. He danced, yelped, screamed, and jumped ecstatically.

They arrived, and formed a circle around Billy. He shouted out more gibberish, and he suddenly felt himself beginning to rise. He was ascending into the sky, surrounded by a cloud of furry, impossibly complex shapes.

He reached the top, and looked out at the landscape below him. It was truly indescribable.

While he gazed in awe, the living optical illusions around him probed into his subconscious, and they were shocked to find that he was not of their earth. They rooted around a little more and found some badly decayed remnants of Billy’s former memories. They leapt into his ancient memories of the earth, and their awe outpaced even Billy’s. They rushed through his memories, astonished by the world they saw. Some of the beings recoiled, unable to comprehend even the concept of a “pop-tart” without injury. Some beings remained, however, and persevered in their exploration.

Those that stayed to understand his memories were transformed forever by the experience. They were happier than ever before, and their friends reported that had become kinder, and more grounded by the experience.

Billy’s memories were published in a scientific journal of the day (or something very loosely analogous to one), and Billy became a superstar.

The beings were happy to reward Billy for his worth, and they deigned to build for him any world that he wanted. Their minds moved so quickly that all of this occurred within moments.

They reached out their minds to Billy, and struggled to speak to an organism so far below them.

Suddenly, Billy saw himself inside his mind. He was a little embarrassed to see how dirty he was. The image of himself began to float, and it transformed itself into the abstraction of desire, which Billy hadn’t thought about for years. At the end of the desire was a questioning, and Billy understood immediately.

Billy, in the darkness of pure being, thought.

 

His mind flitted quickly over the puerile dreams of the palaces of gold and the mere pleasure he could conjure for himself. He rejected them, and thought of something greater, the greatest thing he could imagine.

He thought of nothingness.

And the spirit of Billy moved upon the face of the waters of the void.

He thought into being galaxies, sparkling like jewels in the darkness.

He thought of the earth, and the sun, and the planets, and he spun them in their natural orbits.

He descended to the primordial chaos of the earth, and saw the life that abounded there, and watched it as it grew ever greater, and wept with each extinction, and saw the human species rise from rats in the darkness to man. He watched the meek inherit the earth, and the first real men and women, and the first two humans to love one another, and to hate one another, and the suffering was almost too much to bear.

He withstood their agony, and as the centuries burst into millenia, and people spread themselves across the whole earth, it grew greater still, and still he withstood it.

At last he came to our present age, and stopped himself there, and he allowed the world to move onwards at its natural pace.

His simulacrum was not perfect.

If you go to 509 Black Oak ct., in Antioch, you will find a vacant lot, overrun with trash and weeds. You won’t find Scott, or his mother (her name was May) anywhere on this earth. The wood that made Billy’s living prison is still the living flesh of trees, in Northern California.  At a textile factory in Shaoxing, China, a worker coughed and cut a piece of leather wrong, and, marked as defective, it was sent to the furnace immediately after.

You and I live in this world of his, in this childish imagination, and all that we accomplish will be no more noble or eternal than the shards of light that glittered like stars outside the window.

I Never Told Anyone By Ania Boryslawska

I never told anyone.  I never could say how the sun made me melt into the orange plastic swing in my cousins backyard and how letting go of the chains for just the smallest second made ladybugs crawl down my legs and kiss the tops of my feet before flying off into heaven.   I never told anyone how much I like the smell of my grandpa’s stuff in the bottle when he sat me on his bony lap and rubbed my back and sang raspy Johnny Cash through his yellowy teeth.  I never said how when the wind lifted the edges of the picnic blanket it was like flying on a magic carpet.  I never told anyone I was afraid of being high up because nothing scared me more than falling down because nothing scared me more than broken fingers because everyone knows you break your fingers if you fall too hard and when you go high you fall hard.  That’s what happened to mommy.  She fell hard when I was inside of her.  But she didn’t break any fingers she broke me and that’s why I never told anyone.  Because I don’t know how to tell.

HOW TO BE A GRAVEROBBER By Marley Townsend

First, find the graveyard nearest to you.  It will be a small one, scattered and graying like the leaves of your desk-top flower at the office.  Drive there in a rental, drive there at dusk.  After sunset the Earth will cool and you can dig quietly, in the dark.

Select the headstone based on preference; it doesn’t matter, really, as the owner is hopefully somewhat preoccupied, and if they aren’t you’ve clearly got bigger problems. There are guidelines to choosing, whole tedious marching-ant lists that you control-c’d, control-v’d from your laptop, but the best headstone will call you, like a bird, or a relative you could never quite get to shut up.

Step carefully.  Wet, scaly graveyard grass will cling to your dark boot, eroding the leather and leaving tear-shaped watery crescents there.   A bone or two will gnaw the surface of the dirt, or a white rose will shear your toes with it’s thorns.  Remember, at the back of your brain, the words of your grandmother.  “The one who treads the dead ground tempts within.”  Shudder once, twice, check your text messages guiltily to tether yourself to the firm soil of reality.

You will find the digging difficult.  A row of milky callouses will form under your fingertips, and sweat will pool across you brow, in your collarbone.  A slight mist is beginning to fall.  Once you’ve dug, check your watch.  The one your ex-boyfriend gave you last year.  Wipe mud from the glass and wish you had broken up with him earlier.  It’s ten o’ clock now, reaching the low forties in temperature, but the digging is done.  The digging is done.  Eels of excitement squirm in your veins, sharp delicate fangs of adrenaline biting in.

Look down into the jagged hole.  Great teeth of broken roots, desperate half-chopped worms, and the unmistakable, undeniable cloying sweet of flesh.  Although it burns in your throat, your nose, it doesn’t bother you as much as it should.  Instead of recoiling, wonder dully why your cold hasn’t cleared up (you’ve been downing Tylenol from the Rite-Aid all day).

Break the coffin.  It should be difficult.  People like to be buried safe, the afterlife scaring the living daylights out of them.  But you are strong and you are fast, and the shovel smacks the wood splinter by splinter until it lays disturbed upon the sacred skin of the earth.

This is where, in a moment of desperation, you will deeply and uncontrollably regret this decision.  The crawl of guilt-slash-rain water will seize your muscles, build bile at the back of your mouth.  Quench it.  Just chew your tongue and steel it.

Lean forward.  The soles of your boots will slid and slip, but keep your ground and open your eyes wide to witness your artwork, your personally fashioned Mona Lisa.  Look onto the desecrated bone with all the calmness of a dental hygienist.  You are the artist and the thief, the murderer and the detective.  You have made a mark upon a forbidden wall.  Graffiti artist of the damned.

Breathe.

Turn back twixt the graves, your shovel dragging ditches behind you.  Your throat is dry and numb with excitement, your heartbeat as fast as the dead are slow.

Get back in your rental car slowly, and take mind of your head so as not to bump against the oh-so-clean glass.

Click on the radio.
“Eleanor Rigby”.  Then static.  “Eleanor Rigby”.

Blonde Confessions by Maddie Elias

You’re right. You’re absolutely right. I’m just a dumb blonde. In fact, I’m the poster child for dumb blondes; I fit the stereotype perfectly.

There’s not one thought in my pretty little head. I get constant A’s in my English and music classes, but those mean nothing. The teachers in those classes are male, so I just wear tight clothes and let them see down my shirt, or even seduce them if necessary.

I like to dress up and feel pretty, so I must be shallow and superficial. Like other girls, I wear shorts and tank tops and short skirts when it gets warm out; but in my case it means I’m a slut. I open my mouth wide when I sing to get the sound out, but it also means that I’ve blown every guy in school.

If I’m pretty, I must have used that quality alone for most of my life to get what I want. If I’m skinny, it’s because I have an eating disorder. If I have big boobs, I can assure you now that they’re fake.

All those blonde jokes you’ve heard? They’re all based off real-life incidents. That one about drowning a blonde by putting a mirror at the bottom of a pool: that’s no laughing matter. I’ve had two aunts die after one of them dropped a hand mirror into a lake. My first aunt dove in to try and find it, and when her dead body floated to the surface my other aunt jumped in to keep looking.

We blondes are all the same, so we prefer to be put together into one category, one box. We love our box because it fits all of us perfectly, especially since it’s short and tight.

Finally, blondes DO have more fun. Well, let me elaborate on that: we have more fun because we do more brainless and reckless things that either lead to crazy fun times or crazy trouble. And when you do so much stuff like that, you’re bound to have at least as many good times as bad, right? It’s gotta be a statiricacal fact.

You can call me brainless if you want, I won’t mind; it probably won’t even register with me in fact. That’s another thing about having such a low IQ and low attention span: we don’t have to worry about most things, because we don’t understand most things. We can’t use words like “intelligent” or “spectacular.” The biggest word we’ll ever use is “fabulous!” Personally, I like to shorten it to “fabu!”

So really, you see how well I explained it all? I couldn’t be a better representative for the blonde population as a whole. Oops, I’m not supposed to know the word “representative.” I’ll have to fix that; using words like that would ruin my reputation among my fellow sunny-haired girls. I can’t be smart, because I’m obviously in the category of dumb blonde. And what else would I ever want to be? Nothing could possibly be more fulfilling, yes? It’s not like I could ever be anything else anyway, right? Right? Right.

Untitled by Sarah Steinhart

So I’m applying to be a government employee

I didn’t even know librarians fell under that category

But there are so many people calling out to me

I got an email today from my friend Christine

She told me we’re wanderers and we can’t ignore that fact

So just GO if you’re feeling out of whack

And I don’t really get what’s holding me back

A false sense of security that a backpack lacks

Money and work and parents and TV

And then there’s that school across the country

I say I’ll learn guitar and take time to myself

But it doesn’t seem to be improving my mental health

What kind of person can’t hold a job for a few months?

But I just can’t suppress my contempt for this stunt

I don’t wanna act like it’s okay

Like I’m fine with working 8 hours a day

I guess that’s just me

I’m a failed member of society

Capitalism just isn’t my cup of tea

I prefer lemon ginger, please

And that’s just it

I don’t want money but I’m addicted to nice shit

Like tea & vegan treats & fairy wings

Money makes me more confused than anything

I never have enough but I don’t want any

Sometimes I won’t even spend a penny

So how does Raymond have 17 dollars in the bank

And yet I’ve never heard him complain

He always gives money to drunks on the street

With compassion and kindness to everyone he meets

He says people worry about where that money goes

To a bum’s liquor or drugs or some other remedy for their woes

But Raymond just gives them a smile and a wink

And says, who knows? It could be their last drink.

 

So I try to remember that money isn’t real

And that I can’t let it affect the way I feel

It’s just a number that will change all the time

There’s no use worrying if I have enough labeled “mine”

The universe will take care of me when I overcome greed

I know that’s when I’ll have everything I need

So for now I’ll just try to go with my gut

And tell my capitalist tendencies to shut the fuck up!