That Moment When You Realize You’re Stuck Being You For The Rest Of Your Life
I stared at this blonde thinking, “Eff, I’m trapped being me for the rest of my life.” And later, I told myself, “Well, so is she.”
I stared at this blonde thinking, “Eff, I’m trapped being me for the rest of my life.” And later, I told myself, “Well, so is she.”
I went to the hospital voluntarily. I was there to make money. I was there to smoke marijuana.
I had ducked out of the sun into a mostly-empty sushi restaurant for lunch, but this time it wasn’t preemptive. This time I had no book, no work, no distractions. For once, I was truly alone.
I asked if he would come back upstairs to kiss me at midnight and he said yes. I asked if he would sleep next to me and he said no.
The tip of this umbrella is sharp and could probably draw blood if applied correctly and the rest of the umbrella isn’t so bad itself; when it’s all closed and buttoned-up it’s just like a real weapon.
Breakup sex is something both people have to agree to. You can’t just go in there and sneakily acquire the breakup sex and then notify the person once you’ve come.
What’s more difficult than that is saying I love you aloud, especially if someone else is listening.
I’m exhausted by the act of waking up and knowing exactly what to expect and from whom; I’m tired of water with lemon and lemonade and Arnold Palmers, can’t we invent something new?
In the 70s, beauty queen Joyce was accused of following her Mormon ex-lover to England, where she allegedly kidnapped him, chained him up in a cabin, and raped him.
Does your mother actually hate me, or is that just a thing you say when we’re arguing because you know it’ll make me upset?