I woke up from a dream where little Automne was drawing some bullshit with crayons and matter of factly told grown up Automne that "the problem with red flags is that they always clash with your lipstick. Never mix reds."


The man outside is bucket drumming a love song to the collective attention span we all forgot to send birthday cards to. Agitated by the commotion, an asshole rat just dramatically threw its pizza on the street and proclaimed, "This isn't truth! This isn't beauty! This is just a sonic sympathy fuck!" A nearby pigeon muttered something about "sheeples" before devouring the rat's pizza and falling into a garbage fire. 
Expect a light breeze and chemtrails.


Life imitating art imitating "Liquid Sky" imitating dystopia. Expect warm showers, no skies, and the unceremonious burial of romance in a well dressed graveyard of your choosing. BYOB.

Do you ghouls remember that one time we all shut the fuck up, came together and just posted nonstop David Bowie songs for two weeks straight? I miss that. This is why I'm voting for the ghost of David Bowie for president.


The sexual tension between the pro Bernie friend and the pro Hillary friend hashing it out on your FB newsfeed caused an early spring. Expect a light breeze, predictable memes, and post-coital tristesse.

Last night I had a dream that I was the Riff Randall for Pulp and gave Jarvis these lyrics, dramatically written out with black lipstick on a dirty mirror.


Weird. Can't tell if my upstairs neighbors are a herd of elephants starting a roller skating Einst├╝rzende Neubauten cover band at a bowling alley OR they're just ASSHOLES.


If Man is five, if Man is five, if Man is five
Then the Devil is six, then the Devil is six
The Devil is six, the Devil is six and if the Devil is six

Just spent all my NYC grownup money on winklepicker buckle mary janes and Fall records because I'm a wild teenager with no dishes and high priorities.


People always ask, "AUTOMNE, you are 129 years old but don't look a day over 33. WHAT IS YOUR SECRET?" To which I reply, "BLOOD." But in all seriousness, it's the DORiAN GRAYPHONE 8 that gives me my youthful glow. With each passing dramatic life event, crushing disappointment, and failed relationship, the DORiAN GRAYPHONE 8 wears my scars for me. Ohhh, are you a bill collector trying to reach me? Sawwwrrrryy. My phone hasn't had a ringtone in months. Are you a hurt friend wondering why I haven't replied to your text? I didn't get it. The DORiAN GRAYPHONE 8 picks and chooses what it wants me to see based on a random lottery that takes place on Mercury. Are you a bitter manchild in desperate need to tell me all about my glaring personality defects? I'm SO sorry but I can't read a word of what you said between all these cracks on the screen. I'm going to have to assume you must be singing my praises. Am I late? Am I early? Did I come at a bad time in your life? You won't find me crying in the shower over that stuff because the DORiAN GRAYPHONE 8 doesn't even tell time! IT'S AMAZING!!!!


A hummingbird in a tiny wool jacket took Adderall on an empty stomach and has been hovering behind you in the Subway station at every stop. It just pulled out a tiny harmonica and started playing "Too Fast For Love" to a rat shamelessly flirting with a discarded paperback of "Infinite Jest." Page 57 is missing.
Expect cold temperatures, hard gum, and hot breath on your neck.

*emoticon of a forgotten myspace glitter graphic making love to a spaceship on top of a waterbed*