Danielle Campoamor

Perhaps it’s the all-encompassing hipster movement of premeditated accidental coolness, where record players and typewriters and oversized glasses reign supreme.

All significant disappearances. All capable of sending us into the darkest parts of ourselves. 

It didn’t take long for me to succumb to the fact that sleeping was out of the question.

Which definitely had never happened before.

What a waste of anticipatory time.

When the latest friend, beaming in her overpriced wedding dress, gushes over lace and obsesses over rhinestones and imagines that coveted first look, I miss him.

I stumbled across Ryan O’Connell’s article, some time ago, describing in rather artistic and overtly witty detail what it feels like for a man to get his dick sucked.

Chances are you’ve seen the video and you’ve listened to the lyrics and you’ve caught on to the clever quips directed towards specific pop culture icons.

I’m afraid of accomplishment and success and the joyous occasions that are all-too fleeting.

1. You’ll be naked.

I’m sitting in the detective’s office with sweat pooling between nervous fingers and stinging the hangnails I’ve been biting for the past half hour. My body parts already photographed and categorized and sent away for collection, backlogged behind the arms and legs and breasts and thighs of women I will never meet yet, now, know better than I know myself.

It’s a trap. A scheme. A cleverly constructed allusion many interpret as nothing more than a way of life.