i imagine the door clanged shut behind fmf with that sort of prison door slam. he couldn't even call me to tell me he'd been locked out, on account of having left his phone on the kitchen table! so he treated us to italian at some joint on avenue u. conversation: best summers ever. but fuck fuck fuck the tape cut out half-way through gilmore girls!
so wait, i guess my ex danielle is going to be a trapeze artist now??
"dance monkey, dance!" is, according to a co-conspiritor, a term best used when applied to when someone gets in touch with you, demanding that you entertain them. in other words, as far as i can understand it, the summation of my interaction with others. hey! at least i'm not a dracula about it, i get all mirror-mirror, i'll bounce the ball back. but what! that is about as far out on that shaky limb as i'm capable of going, with the exception of my deeply nuanced romantic entanglement with one jenny the red. which, fuck, i'm at a loss to explain. apparently i've got a whole skeleton of romantic bones in my body. probably from all those bones i've been eating, cracking open with my teeth, sucking the marrow from. the very bones of the mountains. may malice overcome all! let us toast to the death of the sun.