I really like writing pretty things, but sometimes I want to write ugly things.
Is it creepy that I Google Map his address and peruse through his neighborhood, imagining walks we'd go on and talks we'd have about a) life, b) religion, c) romance, d) ALL OF THE ABOVE DUH.
Is it bad that I regret "letting him go" and am trying to find ways to find my way back to him (and his good graces)? He doesn't want this. He definitely does not need this. And I don't care.
I think I'm just going to ignore her.
I am definitely going to ignore her.
I have fantasies of living a life on a yacht. Not ACTUALLY living a life on a yacht, but having enough money and Sperry Topsiders and champagne glasses that, yes, I COULD live on a yacht if I so chose to.
I find perverse pleasure in self-destruction.
I feel like I am playing a deadly instrument when I am typing on my keyboard.