Wednesday, February 22, 2012

It doesn't help to read endearing nicknames in verbosely written letters.

Dave, you have got to stop singing to me. It doesn't help when you collaborate with Santana, either.

Those diced cucumbers in my flower bag are mocking me, stupid fuckers.

My hair is playing mind games with me. It decides to look gorgeous 2 hours before I hit the bed. When I leave home the next morning, it decides to ape Amy Winehouse.

I have 9 very lovely narratives waiting for my scrawny eyes to glance through them - unevenly stacked on my window. I made a promise to them many months ago that I would give them my full attention. But what does one do about temptation? Promises are meant to broken, is too easy an excuse. And I'm known for my drama.

Earlier today, I had a mix of an existential crisis and monetary breakdown - I bought a beautiful dress on a 2 digit bank balance (my poor, abused savings), followed by a schizophrenic conversation in my head about where I was headed in life anyway to have bought a dress like that. Do I need it and Do I need anything at all - mixed together to make a lovely fattening mash.

Don't show my your jawline you 'tard. I have issues remember?

And Dave, you can stop being so heavenly now.

It certainly doesn't help to read endearing nicknames in verbosely written letters... that aren't addressed to you.

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