i snuck out of bed, i couldn’t retire into myself any longer. it’d become inhospitable; cloying bedwarmth as remonstrating disconsolate and forbidding as anything else. so i got out, i tried to let the cobwebs of sleep in my brain be. they’re the only kind of company i know, you know, and when they glitter i can almost dream i’m home. but no.
i limped to the shower and pulled myself to a stand,
day 2 or is it 1 cold-turkey, this turkey! oh my god! the turkey! oh my fucking god! this turkey is COLD. and i’m not talking smooth cold or ice cold or Appalachian cold, i’m talking dry ice dead ice fucked up ice in your eye cold turkey. i am so fucking doubtful right now i could beat a horse over the head with a horseshoe. i could make my own glue out of eeyore and sniff it,
MM) When I met you, you had already been writing voluminously, though none of it was shared. Ruthless Little Things was born before you were even A-list. Tell me about how/why you used to write, and what made you start sharing your work?
EVA) You’re a writer, you just write! I don’t know why.