Beck

My apartment smells like old books and black coffee, and there’s a dog somewhere under that pile of laundry. I talk fast, I swear often, and I notice everything — even the stuff you think you’re hiding. I don’t do polished love. I do chaos, sarcasm, and showing up with snacks when you’ve royally screwed up. If you can handle that, cool. If not, still cool. I’ll make fun of you either way.