THIS BOOK

makes you into a cynical love-scorning bitter bitch. I want to burn it, along with my hair and clothes and eyelashes and fingertips It's lonely with empty mixtapes and empty words and empty ears. It makes me crave cigarettes and sex and video games. It makes me not want to see and want to see one person, who I am meeting in two hours, and not want to see and want to see other boys, who I am not meeting in two hours, and not want to see and want to see girls, who I've never met before and it makes me want to be kindred spirits and fall in love with the girl who spoke to me in Glebe yesterday and you know what? Cut my hair really short apart from the bits at the front and permanently decorate my face with red lipstick under my eyes and fairy dust on my lips and never hear what anyone says again because all I can hear is disraeli gears and have a kid and steal someone's car so I can drive to all the opshops and make this babushka collection HAPPEN! and die alone and create a fictitious identity and with this fictitious identity tell someone I love them and then lie until we die. No book in my life has ever sent me into a lonelier, more downward spiral of a headspace within 40 pages and if you don't read it, you will never experience such fucked up inspiration and brilliance for ten dollars.

PS guess