by Hannah Cohen
Anyway, did you know that I wear
bad luck like wet shoes?
Can you believe it’s been four years since my last
date? I’m cleaned out when it comes to mood:
eager, enthusiastic, excited.
Fuck it. Actual texts I get from
lol—I digress. I am
making things even more difficult. God, I’m really
never gonna get laid again.
Okay, okay, I’m being a little dramatic. I should be on meds,
probably, but I’m too self-conscious to ask my therapist
questions, and tell him how
reality outside his room with the blue carpet and wood paneling
Truly terrible. Apologies in advance for the ongoing mutiny in my head, one
usurper of good intentions after another, but hey,
vicious cycles have to end at some point. You know I’m done for
when I love men the way I failed algebra. Find
x, solve for why.
Yearning for the exact inexactness of my design,
zodiac signs, the numbers, the what-else out there.