When I was nineteen in Madden Girl pleather stompers and tights with holes I listened to Kanye West on the bus for hours at a go and my roommate hated me and cried and told our across the hall neighbor with blonde hair and a boy’s name that I was the most selfish person she’d ever met and probably had crabs. We had been a paper mâché sort of friends—tenuously bound by mutual acquaintances, geographic preferences,
I had forgotten about my ankles and feet.
I had forgotten about my ankles and feet.
I had forgotten about my ankles and feet.
When I was nineteen in Madden Girl pleather stompers and tights with holes I listened to Kanye West on the bus for hours at a go and my roommate hated me and cried and told our across the hall neighbor with blonde hair and a boy’s name that I was the most selfish person she’d ever met and probably had crabs. We had been a paper mâché sort of friends—tenuously bound by mutual acquaintances, geographic preferences,