uuuuuuugghhhh my life
what is it?
is there something specific that’s the matter?
or anything I can do to help?
do you want me to come over?
oh my god
this publisher guy
is asking me about my favorite canto in Child Harolde
that’s like asking someone to pick who’s hotter
his half-sister or his cousins
it’s literally impossible
do you think we could just stay in tonight maybe
i’m so wiped out from last night
we could just stay in
get in our jammies and not see anyone
maybe build a fire
hahaha i’m kidding
there’s already a sex pigeon in your room
i’m coming over in five minutes
do you have that cream from before
the anti chafing cream
we’re going to need a lot of it
to prevent chafing
choirboys chafe easy imho
nothing’s any good
what’s the matter
do you realize i’m never going to be able to have sex with the rain
i didn’t know you wanted to have sex with the rain
of course i want to have sex with the rain
how can you even say that
i feel like you don’t even know me
you should focus
on all the things that you can have sex with
i just want to live
i want to have a threesome with the moon and jealousy
and i want to do it with the rain but i can’t
i should just go die in Greece
I wrote a poem today
do you want to hear it
Near this Spot
are deposited the Remains of one
who possessed Beauty without Vanity,
Strength without Insolence,
Courage without Ferosity,
and all the virtues of Man without his Vices.
This praise, which would be unmeaning Flattery
if inscribed over human Ashes,
is but a just tribute to the Memory of
BOATSWAIN, a DOG,
who was born in Newfoundland May 1803
and died at Newstead Nov. 18, 1808.
When some proud Son of Man returns to Earth,
Unknown to Glory, but upheld by Birth,
The sculptor’s art exhausts the pomp of woe,
And storied urns record who rests below.
When all is done, upon the Tomb is seen,
Not what he was, but what he should have been.
But the poor Dog, in life the firmest friend,
The first to welcome, foremost to defend,
Whose honest heart is still his Master’s own,
Who labours, fights, lives, breathes for him alone,
Unhonoured falls, unnoticed all his worth,
Denied in heaven the Soul he held on earth –
While man, vain insect! hopes to be forgiven,
And claims himself a sole exclusive heaven.
hey totally unrelated
do you remember how many children i have?
i’m trying to do a tax thing right now
and i have nooooo idea haha
it’s for sure SOME
i gotta write some letters
Mallory is an Editor of The Toast.