¹ ⠀ i.e.‚ ⠀ in ᴰᴵˢᵀᴿᴱˢˢ.

to¹ ⠀ ⠀ “vae victis of corporate america.”   of course, she had. in ponytail with far too many strays, business–casual–but–not–too–business–nor–too–casual blouse mr. hughes on the thirty–seventh floor had found lethally polychromatic and with mouth too testy to not quip back at him.   “or eccentric billionaires——  funny way to say oligarchs, but, what do i know? i serve shitty coffee now. oh, and thursday–special blueberry muffins. also shitty².”
            
             ⠀ 1.  @magictied
             ⠀ 2.  yum! 

my condolences.

to¹ ⠀ ⠀ AZALEA JINN IS NO ONE’S EMERGENCY CONTACT NUMBER. has plenty of her own, though that’s another cheery prompt for another one of her college associates she succumbs to cruel faith and carries out another malfunctioning conversation with. save for one. the cacophony of a generic pop song she’d picked from a catalogue of many and as ringtone vibrates the scarp of metal on the wood counter of vinegar’s once. twice. and thrice before the muscle memory instilled in the meat left in her can’t stand the gritting tune of it any longer:
            
            [A: ——yeah?
            U: uh, yeah, hey— lady. this regular over here.. had you saved on his, uh, phone.. and the man’s completely gone, *sigh*— singing shit–faced and all. h–he’s actually kinda good if that, uh.. if tha—] 
            
            AZALEA JINN ALSO DIDN’T ATTRIBUTE MUCH OF ANYTHING TO HER BRAWN. the map of her skeletal anatomy was tired, and the tiredness swept through; from cuticle to bone marrow. save for the hyper-specific instance just now of how she was singlehandedly prolonging the core strength and balance of a thirty–something, vodka–baptized conflict of interest on twos. “your impression of a lost puppy is just barely impressive considering how drunk you are. we’re in your place, brian.” leering to edge the doorway to his own suggestion of a flat, though it’s somehow visually more cohesive than her own. whispering disapproval he, no doubt, finds to be sentimentally idyllic in her reluctantly keen ear because even when inebriated does brian find a way to string a distantly familiar melody along. “i’m dropping you off because i’m such a good—— you get the gist of it.” the hair his tar–lunged breath hits hikes itself up and azalea can’t even bring herself to the brazen or plain stupid conviction, with him so close, that it’s anything but the way his confessional sounds that makes her pause. for just a moment. god, she could really use a cigarette right now. 
            
             ⠀ 1.  @kaputomen

*   @kryptosian
            SCREAMING CRYING THROWINF UP. LIVES WERE CHANGED

to¹ ⠀ ⠀ “‘anguish’ and ‘sustain’, huh?——  i think it’s good that you’re² encouraging him to integrate sophisticated vocabulary into his day to day speech.   get the ball rolling on both the refined language and homicidal enthusiasm and we’ve got the next agatha christie on our hands.     [..]     kidding.”
            
             ⠀ 1.  @kaputomen
             ⠀ 2.  in more ways than one 

he told me that my anguish sustains him  [—-]  i think he’s plotting my murder,  azalea…

the thing that had most shocked her about it was finding out just how humble² the author was about their work though.   or maybe that was because azalea’d just now heard the thinly veiled epidermis palpitations arise from the jerk and consequential fall of his shoulders even through the velveteen darkness surrounding them. anatomically impossible, and you didn’t need to know the exact science to ensure the point, but it’d unabashedly happened nonetheless.   the large, sweeping industrial light shrills from the city and onto the overlooking, shit–riddled balcony the way nearby sirens always seem to overpower smaller streets downtown to provide luminescence upon the state of two figures, side by side.   colorful glow not enough to warm the damp sallow of cheeks, they’ve huddled shoulder to shoulder without any other prior commitment of locked hands, greedy, gnawing fingers on the premise that it’s warmer this way— a stupid effect for a stupider cause.   it’s a mere suggestion of.. nothing. on the account that nothing is always something.   all she needs to do is nod her head an angle to the right, and there he is: why the secrecy?——   i’ve seen you naked, you know. 
            
            “that’s either a compliment to my time and reading proficiency, or an insult to your own writing ability.”
            
             ⠀ 1.  @kaputomen
             ⠀ 2.  illiteracy is a bit of a turn–off anyway.

to¹ ⠀ ⠀ THE WORST SELLING NOVEL OF ALL TIME   (in highlights, underlined)   is a title gripping enough to compel her attention for a page or two hundred and thirteen. it’s better a better one than, say, ‘Faster Than The Speed of Love’.   azalea jinn can recall the sorry state of the book from the corner of her careless gaze as she drags mud–riddled boots past isles of other secondhand stacks of paper through hazy vision; as if she were the bookstore’s very own ghost of past, present and future. a shared glance, she’d purchased it with the last of tuesday’s tips, and read it. though a simple yes wouldn’t do:     “sandwiched right between the mandarins and a reread of chronicle of a death foretold.” 

…jeez,  it’s been a long time since i’ve heard someone bring up that title,      [—-]   you know what?  maybe you shouldn’t read that one,  it’s uh,  it’s really not worth your time  […]   you read it,  didn’t you?