charlie

Death isn't fucking romantic. Now i'm not an expert- ask a palestinian. ask an iraqi. ask a south african. But It doesn't come in deep burgundies and fucking lace, or chuck pahlaniuk books or vampire the masquerade. It is rotting pastel. It is the smell of methane in your common area. It is the corpse a floor above the bathroom where you wiped your face an this morning. No soundtrack but the awkward cops standing around and cracking jokes after an hour.

maybe this is a trite place to talk about something so utterly physical, but I can't erase the things that happened...

but since she was associated with the sex industry, and felt most at home in the company of cute girls, I say congratulations to a life with some fucking texture, and a little bit of elegant and visceral chaos, Miss S.B.