No hot sauce, please.

 The world is made of old beige bandaids, reeking of HOA doldrums and missed PTA brunches. Beige begets grey along the spectrum of those who willingly—willfully, thoughtfully, soulfully—order their own flavor of flat-earth existence. Custom. No hot sauce, please. It's bad for their weak constitution.

Running with Scissors

Not a single whisper in the dark nor even the softest sound from the flip of my hair as I forge ahead, no regrets, only clean momentum taking me the fuck away from whatever mire I leave in my wake.