Shit, I keep having good weekends with my wife. There’s plenty of friends we’ve situated around New York. And I’ve always had pals growing up that I latched onto: Rob, Stephani, Brandon, Laura, Jeriah, Jackie, and the vastness of that in-between. Romantic and asexual and purely “being.” A “being” that always comes at a cost — like every-other single-thing in existence. Sitting there questioning, “Am I fucking bored or just full from dinner?” or “OMG, Billy On The Street just spoke to a dozen people like that in NYC on 5th Ave. He’s like my reality TV GTAV character on Xbox Live. What do you think, baby?”
Oof, the modern day love note should still be written on paper with pen. Fucking from the heart. Maybe I’ll start leaving letters on my wife’s lunch when I make it. What’s the difference between a time capsule Nate Scheible makes and entitles Fairfax, including audio recordings of [whatever] throughout the ACR release? It makes me feel in high school again. It makes me feel like beginning in love. Should I kiss her? Where am I?
Like something you don’t want to look at all the time, and you definitely don’t have to, but still completely appreciate. My wife —this wife of mine; you fucking fuck-face piece of judgmental shit no matter how gay your friends or Korean thy neighborhood; fuck-face; fucking you fuck face-yadda— is sleeping right now and I’m doing my best to keep this typing quiet that you read hear about ACR’s newest Fairfax release by Nate Scheible that feels like the most recent rom-com thriller 1hr3-min flick. Fuck on it and goto Chipotle for her, “Are you fucking McDonalds? Why you always horny after hanging with friends?”
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