romantic

So I’m out in the devil’s weath­er stand­ing at a cross­walk wait­ing for the light to turn, brac­ing my­self against the ac­tu­al ice knives carv­ing into my face when this dopey MF turns to me and says “Isn’t this weath­er ro­man­tic?” Bitch, I am try­ing not to be found by ar­chae­ol­o­gists per­fect­ly pre­served in an ice­berg 10,000 years from now and you’re talk­ing about ro­man­tic. Ro­man­tic. Je­sus. You know what’s fuck­ing ro­man­tic? Rays of sun­light il­lu­mi­nat­ing the sil­hou­ette of linens cling­ing against sun-kissed, sweat-glis­tened skin. Some oth­er po­et­ic shit about the hum of life and flo­ral musk metaphor­i­cal­ly rep­re­sent­ing sex­u­al ac­tiv­i­ty that I’m too cold to come up with right now. Sum­mer shit is ro­man­tic. Not bury­ing my­self in forty pounds of fab­ric and try­ing not to slip on the ice while I wad­dle across the street in this frozen hellscape. Ro­man­tic. GTFO. Just go. Just fuck­ing go.

—na­tal­ie michelle

Flom­mist Na­tal­ie Michelle does­n’t have a bio. She just rants. Copy­right © 2019 Na­tal­ie Michelle.

MOR D’ARTÍCULOS  MOR FLOMM !

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