this. bitch.

this. bitch.

The way she follows you is laughable.

She is a painter who is seven years younger, five pounds lighter and many lifetimes of practicality unborn – than me.

I have this odd way of stating things. Like how on the day we met I told you to move in with me. She doesn’t know me. But she follows me. She reads my blog. She masturbated to one of my photos.

She thinks about me much more than I ever consider her. She only crossed my mind once.

That was enough.

She sends you text messages while you’re trying to call me and I’m not answering my phone again, and you’re wondering why I do that. I wonder about you too. Often.

But I don’t think about her. Like, not ever. I realize you do. It bothers me less than you’d believe.

You really don’t know me that well. Not yet.

She wears these stupid hipster glasses that would be cool if I lived downtown or in Williamsburg, or was cool at all. Only I am an immensely private executive that resides in midtown and would silently devour someone like the president of your fan club, in a dress, should the day require. And if the price was right.

She holds signs for justice and stamps her feet as I strive to be the 1% just to make a point before I leave the country again. She drinks Starbucks while updating her Facebook about saving abused animals in Brooklyn, although she personally has no pets.

This morning I blasted Kanye dancing through Central Park just past five and silently hoping that this seriously ends soon. I came back to my unfurnished apartment that bears nothing more than a mattress on the floor and a full-length mirror inside the 2000 square feet of 10th avenue space.

I crawled and rolled and she was still not on my mind. I slept seventeen hours afterwards. Lucid dreaming.

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