I will be mean.

Dear Zonk,

The next time I get into a train I’m going to be mean. I’m going to smash my way through walls of women and poke them with my pointy elbows and stare them down with my a steely eye. And they are going to quiver and back away and melt into the walls of the train, or, you know, not get on the train at all so I’d have some space and some room to breathe. And there will be room to breathe. And there will be no need for any Clonazepam. And I will stand around and be grim and nonchalant and when Thane comes, I will step off the train in an effortless and ladylike fashion.

Fucking bastard train.

Love always,
K.

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Author: Kirtana K

I paint and make music and blog like a maniac. These days I try to run. But I have chicken legs and lungs the size of two-rupee balloons. I fail. I like pajamas and striped socks and books that read like song and songs that sound like poetry and strangers who read this page. And Maggi when I'm sick or cold or sad or celebrating. They'll find noodles in my veins if ever they cut me open. And potatoes. And maybe a tiny bit of whiskey. I'll be an Unidentified Living Object and they'll put my insides on display. It will be crazy. It will be awesome. It will.

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