The raspberry has Chuck Bass's face.

An underripe raspberry swimming in an oversized leather jacket, smoking the wrong end of a cigarette. The raspberry has Chuck Bass's face. The shadow it casts is an equally scrawny and pitiful rose. The rose has no face, and yet it is screaming, white noise, static, a broken radio. The jacket sleeves hang past invisible wrists, past the point where wrists should end. Chuck Bass raspberry has dessicated and wizened and shrunk up into a little freeze-dried mummy, aged before ripening, a little mummy-berry rattling around the ashtray of your skeezy older cousin's El Camino.