[from some of the artistic products he's seen, a certain degree of shit is inescapable. like how did ronan get such large hands? and kavinsky is also dimly, dully offended by the number of times he's been depicted without gel in his hair, if not the number of sparkles that the strands seem to net in absence of product.

there were a couple decent ones, mind you. kavinsky just has a difficult time focusing on the positives in life. it's one of his special gifts.]

Babe, [he says, flicking the lighter on with his thumb.] These bitches are fucking losers. Every other loser with shit for self-esteem-- [he holds up the lighter high enough for her to draw the heat in through the slender cylinder.] --is trying to overcompensate. If you're gonna be a loser, be loser queen. Be-fucking-hold. [he lights his own cigarette, which constitutes a melodramatic pause, because he is also a loser, just don't tell anybody. and then he gestures around, sending tendrils of smoke everywhere.]

One girl's shit is another girl's-- you know the rest. What's wrong with your vagina? [his mind jumps around like he subsists on air and uppers. he construes, perhaps incorrectly, that it is that region of her that demands fear.]