After buying a new mattress, hauling it up our 3rd-floor walk-up, American-Warrioring it into my room with help from my lovely roommate AB, moving the old mattress out, shoving that piece of crap down to the dumpster, well. I have a proclamation: I refuse to help anyone move a dead body.
Cross-fading, beautiful new tattoo, new mattress on sale got delivered today, roommate’s friend did my makeup this evening, out at a stupid bar, gonna eat a gyro, lovely evening, tomorrow’s birthday brunch I suppose
My blood pressure is 117 over 77 so fuck yeah but my resting pulse is 97 sooooo
I’m at this health consultation thing and they measured my weight with a balanced scale, checking how much weight I carry on my right versus left. Cool, whatever. I hate knowing how much I weigh, though, and haven’t looked at a scale in about two years. Perhaps that’s why I now know I’m 40 pounds lighter than I was when I last checked my weight?
My roommate’s grandpa came over to give her Greek chicken, weed, and money. That’s fucking delightful.
I was meant to be a poetess of leisure living in a Grandiose Manse in Tuscany, drinking wine with many lovers of all genders who like to give me flowers and listen to me sing
“Anyone you’re dating who gets upset upon learning you’re bi is doing you a favor by disqualifying themselves from the list of People Who Get to Date You.”
We all are stardust 