scribblecore — a spirit mix [ LISTEN ]
001. cheerleader — st. vincent
002. lolita — lana del rey
003. rip her to shreds — boomkat
004. kill your heroes — awolnation
005. unbelievers — vampire weekend
006. animal — jenny & johnny
007. boys wanna be her — peaches
008. never say die — sleigh bells
009. new yorker cartoon — jenny & johnny
010. secret mystery track what wtf
what if you started making car alarm noises when people you didn’t like touched you
He doesn’t actually know—It’s
all a matter of how long it takes
before Mr bigwig opens the
bags. Sitcom stuff. Really.
"Or materially?" —-Said on a spluttered exhale of cheap nicotine.
Greedy people, gamblers.
Maybe he’d see the funny side:
They never lose, they almost win.
“Spiritually, I’m just fine. Thanks.” She covers her mouth in the classic, albeit poor, maneuver to hide her smirk. Spirit jokes age like a fine wine, it seems.
"Materially, I need a lot more drugs and a lot less cigarette smoke anywhere near my fucking face. If you take care of that, I’ll give the bag to your creepy customer, or whatever, since you can’t do it yourself.”
A moment of reflection. A decision to show half-present reason, a statement she can’t really get behind caring: “Is he going to shoot me.”
”I mean in movies. But, no.”
"What lame movies are you watching."
Her words kept surprising him. It was difficult to keep his eyes on the road. Ted wanted to be able to read her expression as she said those strange things. Even an adult would have some tentativeness when speaking this way to a stranger. But this girl wasn’t a day over seventeen. Perhaps that aided in her bold speech, but it still wasn’t normal. It’s just murder. He wasn’t sure whether or not to find comfort in those words, so Ted decided to ignore them altogether.
”God, what the hell is that?” he asked rhetorically before switching the radio off altogether. “You’ve officially just lost your stereo privileges.” He might’ve been okay with it under different circumstances, but this girl had already set him on edge.
Set him on edge? Spirit will remember his tautness, his uneasy side eyes, the next time she’s dragged along on an adventure with a discomforting stranger: when in doubt, play some fucking mariachi, disregard the severity of murder, act like you know what you’re doing it and why you’re doing it even though your arms are crossed with something like protectiveness with the road zooming past outside the window in a direction you don’t know.
"It’s called real music. You wouldn’t understand and I guess you’d rather listen to—car noises. The whole fucking time." She pauses. Uncrosses her arms to fiddle with the seat belt and a lose thread on her shorts. Pauses a little bit longer.
"Where are we going."