Caring doesn’t sometimes lead to misery. It always does.
i am constantly torn between killing myself and killing everyone around me.
it can’t be easy having me for a son. nothing can prepare someone for that kind of disappointment.
i do not say ‘good-bye.’ i believe that’s one of the bullshittiest words ever invented. it’s not like you’re given the choice to say ‘bad-bye’ or ‘awful-bye’ or ‘couldn’t-careless-about-you-bye'. every time you leave, it’s supposed to be a good one. well, i don’t believe in that. i believe against that.
they’re all so boring and they’re all trying to make up for it by talking louder.
everyone in our school has afterschool activities. mine is going home.
is there really someone in the whole world who gets an email from email@example.com, reads it, and says to himself, ‘you know, what i really need to do is enlarge my penis 33%, and the way to do it would be to send $69.99 to that nice lady ilena at VIRILITY MAXI-MUS CORP via this handy internet link!' if people are actually falling for that, it’s not their dicks they should be worried about.
too many times when i was a kid, i would put my hands together or squinch my eyes shut and i would devote myself fully to hoping for something. i even thought that there were some places in my room that were better for wishing than others - under the bed was okay, but on the bed wasn’t; the bottom of the closet would do, as long as my shoebox of baseball cards was in my lap. never, ever at my desk, but always with the sock drawer open. nobody had told me these rules - i’d figured them out for myself. i could spend hours setting up a particular wish - and every single time, i’d be met with a resounding wall of complete indifference. whether it was for a pet hamster or for my mom to stop crying - the sock drawer would be open and i would be sitting behind my toy chest with three action figures in one hand and a matchbox car in the other. i never hoped for everything to get better - only for one thing to get better. and it never did. so eventually i gave up. i give up every single day.
Some people have lives; some people have music.
The part I enjoy most is not the doing, but the noticing. Noticing the way she smells like oversugared coffee, and the difference between her smile and her photographed smile, and the way she bites her lower lip, and the pale skin of her back.
[...] and then all of a sudden the clock strikes 5:12 and she figures it’s time to ask personal questions.
and it’s not like i’m really that gay. i fucking hate madonna.
i mean, she’s the one who opened her mouth. not my fault if she can’t take the answer.
[...] asking someone to your room could be taken to mean something, and i definitely don’t want maura to think i’m going to get all ‘hey-why-don’t-we-sit-on-my-bed-and-hey-since-we’re-sitting-on-my-bed-how-’bout-i-put-my-dick-inside-you?’ with her.
i always tell myself that you don’t mean to hurt me, which makes it less hurtful, you know. but today - i’m just so fucking sick of it. of you.
[...] your life isn’t out there waiting, so don’t think all you have to do is find it and get it. no, your life is right here. and, yeah, it sucks. lives usually do. so if you want things to change, you don’t need to get a life. you need to get off your ass.
me giving my mom romantic advice is kind of like a goldfish giving a snail advice on how to fly.
he is both the source of my happiness and the one i want to share it with.
he’s become the one the songs are about.
People are pretty fucking weird, if you haven’t noticed.
lord, send me amnesia. make me forget every moment [...].
the things you hope for the most are the things that destroy you in the end.
They do not need to be heard; they only need to be speaking.
willupleasebequiet: are you ready?
bluejeanbaby: for what?
willupleasebequiet: the future
willupleasebequiet: because i think it just started
Not that smart. Not that hot. Not that nice. Not that funny. That’s me: I’m not that.
I think about how much depends upon a best friend. When you wake up in the morning you swing your legs out of bed and you put your feet on the ground and you stand up. You don’t scoot to the edge of the bed and look down to make sure the floor is there. The floor is always there. Until it’s not.
it’s this silver mercedes, the kind of car you’d expect to be driven by a plastic surgeon - and not the kind of plastic surgeon who fixes the fucked-up faces of starving african babies, but the kind of plastic surgeon who convinces women that their lives will be over if they look older than twelve.
mental health days only exist for people who have the luxury of saying ‘i don’t want to deal with things today’ and then can take the whole day off, while the rest of us are stuck fighting the fights we always fight, with no one really caring one way or another, unless we choose to bring a gun to school or ruin the morning announcements with a suicide.
who the hell wants to be the one to tell a kid that santa claus isn’t real. it’s the truth, right? but you’re still a jerk for saying it.
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