you don’t know how it felt to be in the womb but at least you didn’t have to read my blog.

you don’t know how intimately they’re not recording your every move on closed-circuit cameras until you suddenly do and then write a lower-caps poem so they they’re watching again.

you don’t know how to stop picking at your butt.

you don’t know how little you’ve been paying attention until you realize you’ve put two diff socks on. shit gotta stop dressing in the dark.

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you don’t know how many times you can say you’re coming until they say “hey, not here buddy, this is the grocery store.”

you don’t know how orgasmic the act of making it all about me is until they mention me on gawker again.

you don’t know how many of my concert tees to order. at least three, what are you, an asshole?

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you don’t know how convinced my parents were that teaching me to have no self-awareness whatsoever was a great idea. wait, yes, you do.

you don’t know how precious your iphone battery time was until you depleted it taking another picture of your own poop.

you don’t know how to get away from amanda fucking palmer.

do you know the way to san jose.

do you know the way to san jose.

woah woah woah woah woah woah woah woah woah woah.