“What does it mean? The punch is the pull? That makes no fucking sense.” Nonetheless, the words are burned into your thoughtstream, clipping away at every nerve that tries to supply your brain with contradicting theories. You shake your head hard, thinking that it’ll somehow knock sense into your skull. It’s like kicking the VCR to fix the blinking 12:00—brute force is only a temporary solution.

I’m not sure where things went wrong. When I was eight or nine, I had aspirations of becoming an astronaut, a doctor. By fourteen, I thought I was a smartass and figured being a plastic surgeon would be the way to go. But ever since the day I found myself falling for her, all that I ever wanted to achieve in life went by the wayside.

“How many reasons are there for losing yourself? No, no, let’s not get into that. Too complicated, too bizarre. Something simpler: How often do you change your socks? It’s a simple question, but I’ve always been the kind of person who wondered if anyone would notice if non-smelly, dark-colored socks would be fine to re-wear. I mean, they’re not noticeable, right? And isn’t that the point?”

I want to write a book, direct a film or do something that’ll show you, tell you and make you feel about the ironies and preciousness of life.

Past the corner of my eye on Second Avenue, I see her walking down St. Mark’s Place. Short edgy hair with bangs that cover her right eye. Glitter over her eyelids; for effect or maybe for superficial purposes (either work). I’m across the street, going the other way, but she has the uncanny ability to change my direction.

You and I are simple; the complexity of our relationship is superficial. The terms we never agreed to are imaginary, and for that I will forever hold you in my thoughts.

this shit, it’s unreal / i don’t feel / love or hate / cause life’s a reel / of sunday night flicks / on nbc / starring jean-claude van damme / and directed by spike lee