Status Updates From Tilt

Listen to me, Bean. If I could, I would take every hour that I sat in that fucking cubicle, under those sick yellow lights, staring at an Excel spreadsheet, and I would burn them up—all those hours—until they were just a glowing ember in the air, and then I would take your hand and we would watch the entirety of all those days, all that time, slither and writhe around us. An orange symphony of waste.

there’s nothing a woman hates more than walking by herself, and hearing a strange noise, or feeling the presence of an “other,” that horrible sickness all over my body, ground shifting, women are so unsafe, all of us always pretending to be safe, always avoiding any reminder that our safety is upheld only as long as the person closest to us keeps deciding not to kill us.