Show tits. Be Black. Laugh too loudly. Order veal. Have the kind of queer relationship that Netflix hasn’t figured out how to monetize. Rent. Walk down the street thinking they don’t know your headphones are blasting that one pop-punk hit you felt guilty about listening to even back in high school. Slouch. Pick your teeth. Do the drugs they don’t write breathless travelogues about. Run back and forth across the Brooklyn Bridge at 4 a.m. with someone you just met because you feel that ugly beautiful energy when you look at them and it has to come out, come OUT, COME OUT, before you can go somewhere as prosaic as bed. Appreciate silence. Age appropriately. Imagine a better life is possible. Call an ex from 10 years ago who occasionally stalks your Insta stories and tell them you don’t miss them, not really, but sometimes you wake up with the memory of the taste of their ass on your tongue, anyway hope they’re well. Know sorrow. Learn nothing. Turn right on red.
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