The shirt seemed heavy until he saw there was another shirt inside it, the sleeves carefully worked down inside Jack’s sleeves. It was his own plaid shirt, lost, he’d thought, long ago in some damn laundry, his dirty shirt, the pocket ripped, buttons missing, stolen by Jack and hidden here inside Jack’s own shirt, the pair like two skins, one inside the other, two in one.
There are thousands of half-babies in my ballsack and that’s terrifying
at least you don’t bleed them out every month
you make a compelling argument
excuse me siR EXCUSE ME ARE YOU AWARE THAT I HAVE A BLOG WITH OVER 2 FOLLOWERS ON THE INTERNET YES YOU HEARD ME OVER 2 FOLLOWERS SO IF I WERE YOU I WOULD SIT THE FUCK DOWN