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So I think I am finally learning how to write. It’s about time. I mean, you can’t be EIC of a magazine without knowing how to write, right?

So I think I am finally learning how to write. It’s about time. I mean, you can’t be EIC of a magazine without knowing how to write, right?

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It’s been a while.

So here I am filled with way too many adjectives to describe my emotions that I feel as if they are about to ooze out of my pores at any moment and saturate this couch with which I sit upon, as if I was going to inadvertently mark my territory. One can only hope that my skin is thick enough to keep from bursting open. But sometimes i find myself leaking; joy, anger, jealousy, lust, complacency, satisfaction, depravity… 

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Ohhhhh you (Taken with instagram)

Ohhhhh you (Taken with instagram)

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Ok I lied. Just wanted to wish my favorite girl in the world a wonderful Christmas. I love you @sweatmother  (Taken with instagram)

Ok I lied. Just wanted to wish my favorite girl in the world a wonderful Christmas. I love you @sweatmother (Taken with instagram)

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Taken with instagram

Taken with instagram

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Taken with instagram

Taken with instagram

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Taken with instagram

Taken with instagram

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Seems better than Herman Cain? (Taken with instagram)

Seems better than Herman Cain? (Taken with instagram)

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i went to a funeral

so i had to go to a funeral a few weeks back, but it wasnt a normal funeral. it was for a child. younger than ten, innocent as ever, child. it was rough. i never thought i would have to experience something like that in my life. but at first, it was ok. it was like a new orleans wake, fresh with proactive people dressed to the t in their sundays best. i remember mrs. muhronin dressed in white, despite the theme that one should wear black at a funeral. she had on a long dress with floral designs across the stomach and breast. they reasembled lillys and orchids. she swore it wasnt by a major designer, and that she got it a few days prior from Ross in the half off rack. “doesnt it resemble channel or versace!” she would say. almost forgetting the entire reason for being there. then there was mr. shantel. dressed from head to toe in what appeared to be a standard suit. but he kept proclaiming that it was more than that. “i know it looks like hugo boss” he would say. “but in fact, its valentino.” 

i remember over hearing all of this and thinking to myself that they are missing the point. we are here to show our sympathy, to mourn, to be greatful that life is so fragile and to utilize our gift, no matter the inevitable outcome whether we know its place or not.

and then it hit me. the reason. that scratching at the back of my brain, the reason my palms were sweating. the entire catalyst for my fear of being… the soundtrack. all the while, i am sitting there, trying to empathize with a grieving family, listening to two dumb cunts describe there inner being through cloth, and imbibing what appears to be a heartfelt song

only its not that. here i am, listening to smashmouths “allstar” at a baby’s funeral, and only i am the one who can make any sense of this irony that is taking place.

and for whatever reason, i cannot contain the laughter from within, even during the eulogy… especially during the eulogy