Don’t try to understand this. 

-

As Valentines Day comes closer, the bitterness intensifies.

Drunk calls, perhaps. 

Depends on how intoxicated one or the other is.

Or maybe he has too much dignity. Or I do.

It’s going to be a weekday though.

How troublesome.

Stemming the flow of my desires is at the top of my worries.

I wish for so much. I see a soul just as lost as mine.

One day, I hope to taste the surrender in his mouth.

I need to constantly remind myself that escape is not better than nothing if I’ll get lost. The worries are starting to churn.

I want to snatch those loser shades of his and throw them in his face and punch the shit out of him. Or push him down the stairs. Or bodyslam him and then strangle him with my own hands.

But since he’s like a fucking cockroach, he’ll never die.

Fuck you chemistry, and all these tests and quizzes.

Stubborn bitch.

My hopeful eyes feel betrayed but then I look into his and they reflect the same. How could I deny it. But he’s a drama queen, so when he’s affected he’ll jump to conclusions.

But then he shrugs it off, like he’s always done. That’s how he’s learned to cope with things.

And this is a fucking bad time to write a post.

Also.

I’m going to think about you on this day, and wonder how I miss and love someone I’ve never met.

Of course you could be (dying) in your little fratparty for all I care.

Yes, gooks are so wonderful. How shamelessly and wonderfully wonderful we are.

Now shut up and go shit on your car.