(no subject)
i could scratch my eyes out on this highschool dream that something out there's good for me.
i feel as though i've actually torn out my hair and the tangles are nooses around my fingers. like nooses around my fingers are the tangles, and they etch into the skin. They etch into the skin, and cinnamon-colored lines are left in their wake.
I am hating that I am so frustrated, and I look like a vanilla cupcake even though nothing goes quite according to plan. Nothing's bad, but it's not according to plan. I am not a Mice nor am I a Men, but I am some hideous misinterpretation of the two, thus my best-laid plans... alright, I'll be fair, my shakylastminutesmelly plans wither. Flowers remain flowers, whether withered or not, I'll grant you that... but beautiful sunkissed blossoms, right? Doesn't that sound better than a passable but water-starved fleabitten rose?
Welcome to EMO, Seshadri. I have a nasty feeling that this is some divine, twisted, comedic strategy to have me repent for acting evilly towards the woebegone. Or just post-SAT pre-springbreak blues. Let's hope it's that, and it will end soon, as I'm starting to get on people's nerves.
P.S. For those of you (I assume there must exist a few, as I encountered one today) who for whatever asanine reason believe me right-wing, Oscar Wilde is my favorite author, if I could go back in time I'd do Shakespeare in a second, and there's no need to assume that I'm homophobic and convince me otherwise.
i feel as though i've actually torn out my hair and the tangles are nooses around my fingers. like nooses around my fingers are the tangles, and they etch into the skin. They etch into the skin, and cinnamon-colored lines are left in their wake.
I am hating that I am so frustrated, and I look like a vanilla cupcake even though nothing goes quite according to plan. Nothing's bad, but it's not according to plan. I am not a Mice nor am I a Men, but I am some hideous misinterpretation of the two, thus my best-laid plans... alright, I'll be fair, my shakylastminutesmelly plans wither. Flowers remain flowers, whether withered or not, I'll grant you that... but beautiful sunkissed blossoms, right? Doesn't that sound better than a passable but water-starved fleabitten rose?
Welcome to EMO, Seshadri. I have a nasty feeling that this is some divine, twisted, comedic strategy to have me repent for acting evilly towards the woebegone. Or just post-SAT pre-springbreak blues. Let's hope it's that, and it will end soon, as I'm starting to get on people's nerves.
P.S. For those of you (I assume there must exist a few, as I encountered one today) who for whatever asanine reason believe me right-wing, Oscar Wilde is my favorite author, if I could go back in time I'd do Shakespeare in a second, and there's no need to assume that I'm homophobic and convince me otherwise.