I might not have a dystrophy.
But there's no doubt that my lower limbs are still FUCKED THE FUCK UP.
As cold forty-something fingers where where messaging my upper breast, I began to feel very frustrated again. Not a good frustration, at all. I was thinking about how hard it is to listen to songs about longing for love when all you long for is to feel a little better than the day before; and sometimes gaining that much progress is far more a shot in the dark than finding love.


It's all a rarity.