You probably get to know people by interacting with them.

That’s pretty simple.

No it’s not.

Fuck if I know. I’m just listening to The Hills by The Weeknd on repeat. Thinking about how much of my life can be distilled into a late morning hitting “snooze” because I can’t mount the energy to pull myself out of the swill fermenting behind my sleepy eyes. It’s pull, not raise. Raise sounds uplifting.

Little things remind us that we’re human. I got a nosebleed today. A nosebleed. Brain hemorrhage? Watery parts of me, running away in tremulous little streams; crawling around my lips; tickling my tongue; slithering down my chin like stalactites — or the prequel to. I tried to deliver a joke. “I sicced the nanobots on it; we’re good.” I stumbled with the words.

What the hell just came on? “You say you got skills in the bedroom?” Skip. Whatever happened to The Weeknd?

Nanobots are things I like to think about. I like to think about them timidly, like I could never comprehend them. Then I like to tell myself, “fuck that, you can understand anything.” I imagine I’ve invented nanobots that swim through people’s veins. They stop heart attacks and repair brain hemorrhages. They have a little logo on them, so nanoscopic you’d never know. It looks like a hummingbird. It says something witty, and probably contrived. “Beats per Clinic NanoMedical.”

Girls find me interesting. Passion is attractive, I’m told. Creativity, too.

No, they don’t.

They do, but I haven’t noticed it.

Definitely not. That’s the sort of thing you notice.

Fuck if I know. I’m going to put The Weeknd back on.

One clap, two clap, three clap, forty?

By clapping more or less, you can signal to us which stories really stand out.