You know that scene in Mulholland Drive where that chick is masturbating desperately while weeping inconsolably? Here on planet February, my life feels a lot like that.
That scene disturbs me because it is the most earnest physical manifestation of how I genuinely feel
Having trouble separating love and sexuality, seeking shallow tactile comforts, abusing the same feedback loop, yielding only lacklustre results.
It's like wringing out every lemon you could get your hands on, thinking it could bring your long dead grandma back to life because you got caught remembering how she used to make you feel when you made lemonade together.
in the absence of fire we eat the fuel for comfort when we re just not fucking on straight.