I feel like I get Donald Trump and it makes me feel like such an outsider. Try be the daughter of a republican at a hippy dippy massage therapy school.
All I want in this moment is crème brulee, and then I no longer do.
I like that when I write I don’t always make no sense. My greatest fear is that if I ever did write prose or a book, that I might actually make sense, and though this induces fear, the thought of it sets me at ease. What a relief, to make sense, to be a human whose existence is sensical amid, or because of its madness.