God I hope a fucking semi hits me on the way to work. I’m so fucking fed up.
We cling to music, to poems, to quotes, to writing, to art because we desperately do not want to be alone. We want to know we aren’t going crazy and someone else out there knows exactly how you’re feeling. We want someone to explain the things we can’t.
Writing is weird.
One minute you are telling a story.
The next minute you are researching the average amount of snowfall Edinburgh gets.
or how to kill someone with a piece of barbed wire and a tomato
Or how much force it takes to dent a human skull with a can of Pepsi.
my mom told me that in high school she use to get boyfriends at the beginning of February so they had enough time to get her a valentines day gift and then break up with them the day after and just keep the gift and one day she told her parents about it and they made her keep her boyfriend at least until the end of February and so she did and that boy is now my dad