my favorite compliment i’ve gotten at college was from a drunk frat boy who said i had “the body of the girl of his dreams” then paused and held up a hand to stop me from saying anything and continued “…..but the haircut of the boy of my dreams”
I looked at the Rorschach blot. I tried to pretend it looked like a spreading tree, shadows pooled beneath it, but it didn’t. It looked more like a dead cat I once found, the fat, glistening grubs writhing blindly, squirming over each other, frantically tunneling away from the light. But even that is avoiding the real horror. The horror is this: In the end, it is simply a picture of empty meaningless blackness. We are alone. There is nothing else.