early twenties widow sits on a chaise lounge covered in blood red velvet. she is wearing a collar made from the furry bodies of three albino ermine. a black fender knockoff sits on top of two brandless amplifiers cased in stainless steel, regurgitating vibrations and signals as feedback. a trained piglet wearing a diamond collar fetches cigarettes and chantrelles. she watches the swaying palms and their skinny necks and laughs.
DRAKE COUNTDOWN: ONE HOUR TIL CHAMPAGNE PAPI && WEEZY
i don’t trust people who are super into “proper grammar” and “correct punctuation” because what lies just beyond that smug superiority is some sinister classism that gets acutely racist in a red hot minute, so for similar reasons I’m instantly wary of anyone who takes great pride in their love of “logic” and “intellect”