i feel like i’ve lost control of a lot of things lately.
and the last national album is hitting a little too close to home.
so i will repeat mantras until i can believe them again.
i am trying to be okay.
"i am good, i am grounded.
davy says that i look taller.
i can’t get my head around it.
i keep feeling smaller and smaller.”
Between this and the story about him reassuring F. Scott Fitzgerald re dick size, I’m developing a picture of Hemingway as the mother hen of the disaffected white male literary set of the early 20th century.
He probably called up Steinbeck sometimes and was like I CAN’T EVEN WITH THESE DIPSHITS and Steinbeck was all “That’s what you get for living in Paris, asshole”.