The kind of love letters I write are the ones you read in bed, stretched out under the sheets with one hand between your legs.
Kidnapper: Get in the fukin van
Me: Oh ok cool
Me: This is a febreze commercial right
Me: Smells pretty shitty in here to me tbh
Period: You want cookies
Period: You want to fuck
Period: You want to fuck while eating cookies.
Period: Let's be sad about trivial things, shall we?
Period: Kill them.
Period: Kill them too.
Period: Kill them and eat their cookies.
Period: Shhhh it's okay you'll feel better soon.
Period: HAHAHAHAHA NO YOU WON'T FUCK YOU.
Period: Whoops you dropped a spoon better cry
I’m someone who’s mostly dead inside but still has a little hope for something extraordinary, which, as I said, is the worst breed of human, because it means I know everything is bullshit, but that I secretly hope for the day when it might not be.
Perhaps a sin that humbles you is better than a good deed that makes you arrogant