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self-pity manifesto
want to be old and gay, bursting into tears in the lap of any of many young friends, crackheads, immuno compromised, broken cheerful whores, who will softly stroke my balding head and whisper sweet, trivial words of compassion to me when i am sad. get a crush on a sixteen y.o. fickle dancing leech, my friends will forgive this shameful obsession and his monstrous abuse of me, because they know my heart and how good it is, and there's no such thing these people won't forgive, versed in the ways of sorrow as they are. overdoses, breakdowns, cut wrists will replace this view of poplars and preening canaries.
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i like it when you chat with me.