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A lot of the time, it’s ambition that keeps me going. I don’t particularly like the pain, but I love bragging that I endured it.

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“I wish you wouldn’t hit me so hard,” I whined. “I need to build my tolerance back up.”

“Baby,” Pup said. “How do you think you build a tolerance?”

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Sometimes I’m so hungry for you that everything else feels incidental.

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“It’s hard to tell the difference between sea and sky, between voyager and sea. Between reality and the workings of the heart.” – Haruki Murakami, Kafka on the Shore.

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She just absolutely needs the blindfold, she says. Nothing else makes her quite so brave.

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“I still owe money to the money to the money I owe

I never thought about love when I thought about home

I still owe money to the money to the money I owe

The floors are falling out from everybody I know.”

(Made out in bed to this song recently with Ace. And, ugh, yes. It’s just one of those songs that always does it for me. It’s evocative – I tried to explain to her, though I didn’t really have the words – of this weird sort of present nostalgia. Like, this feeling that these are these particular moments, these particular days that I’ll remember with that sort of warmth. And the music just feels like bedsheets and soft light. It feels like drowning in another person. But also that feeling of looking around a room and realizing this is your life, these are your people, this is all your suffering and your energy and your joy. Of being young and broke and stupid. It feels like thrill and cockiness and bravery and the weird way things can feel casual and intense all at once when they’re new or when they’re ending, like they’re nothing and everything.)

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Actual thing I’ve said to Pup: “Gonna give my pussy a rugburn on your beard later.”