an argument for burning every photo in your home

I’d do anything to be in the band Women.

In 2008, they wrote the greatest song featuring guitars ever: Eyesore. In six minutes and twenty-five seconds, it bottles the bastardization for nostalgia and carnal desire my idiotic age group with no chance of owning a home // 18-35 // craves.

We stray from the physical. We have no idea how to discuss intimacy. I fall asleep soundlessly in my hand-knit baby blue snowflake sweater before the three-minute mark.

If you own a home: congratulations.

There’s no fluff anywhere. Sixteen snare hits in four-four time then the band immediately follows. One hundred and thirteen beats per minute. Zero key changes in D minor. We’ve read a Pitchfork article before. Let me remind you what happened to them:

I spent my twenties aggressively taking thirty-five-millimeter photographs of everyone I love. Fuck the cost. Their skin’s gorgeous. Every time I saw desire in their eyes—

(God knows I love to lie)

I’d kiss them on the cheek and whisper:

“Make sure you put lotion on your neck. Everyone forgets to do that.”

3:46 to the end —I slow down and shimmer at half-time on loop every day for the next ten thousand years. I look everyone I love in the eye and tell them I could not have built this life without them. Snowflakes melt on my tongue.

Since the first edition of “JOSH’S WORLD” I got a lawyer and a dog in case anyone tries to sue me. Rich people always have many passions.

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