Yesterday I spent my last $15 on a book titled Blackout. Today I collected change around my house until I had conjured up enough money to buy deli meat, sliced bread and condiments. I tore through my sandwich as I let my eyes devour Sarah Hepola’s writing.
I finished the book and now I don’t know what to do with myself. I commend Sarah (and all of the other creative lil shits) for being capable of turning inner turmoil into fucking masterpieces. A life goal: profiting off of my misery. Good lord.
I got nothin’ else to say, really. Sorry.