Your mom texts you that she thinks your beautiful, which, oh perfecto, So aesthetically, your mom thinks your still spot on, however, your personality though, which you have been told since fucking birth is THE ONLY PART OF YOU THAT MATTERS fucking sux, you silly little, bitchy little, dumb girl.
You get off the couch and decide to eat and slash or find some different music. You find this really "great" song. His name is Sean, and he takes you to this sultry, this sexy little seventies elevator with velvet curtains.
You begin to touch yourself as the elevator ascends, loving yourself in public like no man has ever loved you before. You find parts of your private that roll waves out of all the water in your body, you're liquid all over from that moment on, moved only by the moon and this pretty boy, Mr. Savage, and his voice.
There are purple and gold tassels everywhere, swaying to the beat as a whiff of a fruity SPF passes you by. It's summer out there somewhere, you care barely, you will get back to the temporary flux of the seasons after this temporary influx of seratonin moving motion. The elevator continues to soar.
You wonder if this unexpected oasis in your day will ever stop, but stop wondering because the song never stops, the elevator never stops, and I don't know if you end up showering in the end.
I showered.
