never forget me not

Ac­tu­al­ly had this thought this morning:

“What if I just don’t go back to re­al­i­ty? What if I make my own re­al­i­ty and live there, instead?”

Why not?

This week­end I’m go­ing to send let­ters to every city coun­cil mem­ber about the Nazi takeover last week, and I’m go­ing to be re­al­ly hes­i­tant to head to places that don’t re­quire proof of vaccine.

*fas­tens chok­er, plucks eye­brows too thin*

I know that there are count­less cul­tur­al touch­stones for pin­point­ing ex­act­ly when every­thing start­ed go­ing to shit, but I’d like to re­al­ly think it was when Rivers Cuo­mo sang about how he’ll nev­er be­long in Bev­er­ly Hills at the same time that he had a net worth of $30 million.

It’s ⁹⁄₁₁ Eve so don’t for­get to leave pret­zels out for Dubya tonight.

“Please, to­mor­row, spare a minute for your con­ser­v­a­tive friends. They have to spend a whole day pre­tend­ing that they would be up­set about 3,000 Amer­i­cans dy­ing in a pre­ventable tragedy.”
—mai fren, Rob

—emi­ly duchaine

Flom­mist Emi­ly Duchaine lives in the Pa­cif­ic North­west. She likes to drink mead, learn about sharks, and lis­ten to the Talk­ing Heads. She pre­tends to be a pro­fes­sion­al busi­ness­woman most days. Copy­right © 2021 Emi­ly Duchaine.

MOR D’ARTÍCULOS  MOR FLOMM !

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