Oh, the double u’s.

Ethan, where are you? I used to beg you not to go and write words on your drive way in chalk. And your mother would come out and find me with my cigarettes and my teenage broken heart and she would ask me if I knew where I was, if I knew how to get home.

I threw my chalk in the air.

I haven’t seen enough Futurama to take my AI class. 

I haven’t seen enough Nirvana shows to argue about music. 

Everything in my room is warm and falling apart. Maybe I can’t write with eyes on my shoulder. 

Safely

Everything falls apart like leaves now, which is strange because it’s winter. I suppose if I were any sort of decent sized writer I would be able to come up with metaphors that at least coordinated with the current season, but I spent my day thinking about older men and why I fool myself into thinking they’re more mature and wonderful than young boys because they don’t think about sex as much or something

and I am the perfect twenty-year-old girl to trap. and they hunt for me, they hunt of me all over and I am lost enough to fall into them and beg for acceptance that I get through adjustments in my appearance and a sexual favor here and there. 

What am I saying?

I’ve spent my days wondering why it’s so easy to get what I say what I want and why is it so fucking hard to get my dad to say something nice, just once.

and fuck you, i know it’s whiny. blame it on the ambien hahah im a joke

thanks dick jones