Pollock

Things I have actually said, out loud, to other humans in the past week:

“Why can’t they go cry in the elevator like a considerate human.”

“I am not unreasonably excited about this citation software. You need to get on my level.”

“I think a 15 y.o. who rides my bus just asked me out. I wonder what made him think I was in his age group–my height or my acne.”

“It’s not cold, sometimes I just like to have this coat with me because it makes me feel powerful. I stole it from an office I hated working at.”

“Pro-tip: If someone titles their essay ‘Blank and Capitalism’ they are not about to tell you how much they love capitalism. That’s, like, the number one indicator that you are about to read an essay written by a socialist.”

And, given all of these antecedents, this is perhaps the most important thing I’ve said all week:

I am the Jackson Pollock of human social interaction. Is it a mess or a masterpiece? The brilliance lies in revealing the fact that you can’t tell the difference and forcing you to confront the existential terror that maybe there is no difference.

Y’all, I am either becoming the most “me” I have ever been or having a full-blown breakdown. Or both? I don’t know anymore, but this seems appropriate somehow.

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