Copywriter | Awful Babysitter
Yet again, I buried myself alive.
24, gone, with all of its trappings and lessons and ennui stuck carefully into the shoe box under my bed — where I preserve bits and pieces of many dead Kyles.
A day at The Met.
Stop making eye contact.
But I cannot. And now, I’m locked in a staring match with a woman I do not know.
Based on the title of this piece, you might think I’m going to liken her to a work of art. That is…
But mostly the airport.
After some time in the sun, my scalp is burned.
Forgive me for what I peel off the top of my head.
It’s why I’ve snuck away to write. Inside. And it’s my favorite part of traveling—doing home things in a different…