[-critical: a mixtape.]

thefestivalproject.com The warmth of the morning sunlight through and jovial bus driver somehow made it all a little better, but I still wanted to cry, and was choking back tears, though flushed with relief, after running for the bus, having nearly boarded going in the opposite direction—before realizing my mistake, crossing the street to where I assumed the correct stop would be as the eastbound rushed by me, as I darted after it at top speed, yelling— “Hey, HEEEYYY—!!” —at the top of my lungs, from my already hoarse, very sore throat, which had magically plagued me just the day before my departure from the East coast, with not quite a full cough, but just enough of one to attempt to dislodge whatever moist, unpleasant sack of phlegm which seemed to coat my upper chest, through it wasn't entirely respiratory; I had been annoying myself and more than likely anyone I spoke with over the last couple of days, but, for some reason, still felt it necessary to say whatever I was saying—explaining off my situation to try to dissuade the perception that I was a loser—still actually convinced that either my ex, or “coughs” had set my life into a spiral with some demonic, black magic curse. I gotta go now; I got a show now We bout to turn out …Wow… You got me a blouse… Heh You came to my house You gave me the mouth I gave you the mau5 ‘How's about a downer?' Do you want the powder? It's been half an hour; I am just a flower And let me show you How–er– Let me show you. #oysters