(no subject)
Life is full of changes. Some are big, some are small.
Some really shouldn't matter, yet they still hit you like a red hot burning brick to the face, leaving scar tissue and deformations.
Like a crescent wrench around the top of the small intestine and another at the bottom of your esophagus trapping the gasses and acids in your stomach to boil and bubble and burn. Butterflies? Fucking pterodactyls.
It’s like the time you set up a picnic for your first date with your true love. You lay out the blanket (I’m talking one of those blue and white checkered picnic blankets, the kind you see in your mind when you think of picnics), in the greenest grass you’ve ever seen, set down the basket, pull out the sandwiches (peanut butter and jelly) and chips (original, ruffles), and just before you know it, torrential downpour.
Remember in third grade, the time you took a soccer ball to the gut; you fell flat on your back and couldn’t breathe for 2 minutes. Imagine now that a fifth grader waltzed on over and sat on your chest so you couldn’t breathe for 4 minutes instead. Not the skinny fifth grader with freckles and glasses, it was the guy that tried to light his farts on fire and used swear words.
It’s like that.
I don’t know how this is all relevant; I just know that it all exists. It’s just sad that it can exist in the same world as Count Chocula and Alkaline Trio and Tony Hawk and Domino’s Pizza and french kisses and sunlight and snowflakes and clever writers and cleverer readers.
Shit.
Some really shouldn't matter, yet they still hit you like a red hot burning brick to the face, leaving scar tissue and deformations.
Like a crescent wrench around the top of the small intestine and another at the bottom of your esophagus trapping the gasses and acids in your stomach to boil and bubble and burn. Butterflies? Fucking pterodactyls.
It’s like the time you set up a picnic for your first date with your true love. You lay out the blanket (I’m talking one of those blue and white checkered picnic blankets, the kind you see in your mind when you think of picnics), in the greenest grass you’ve ever seen, set down the basket, pull out the sandwiches (peanut butter and jelly) and chips (original, ruffles), and just before you know it, torrential downpour.
Remember in third grade, the time you took a soccer ball to the gut; you fell flat on your back and couldn’t breathe for 2 minutes. Imagine now that a fifth grader waltzed on over and sat on your chest so you couldn’t breathe for 4 minutes instead. Not the skinny fifth grader with freckles and glasses, it was the guy that tried to light his farts on fire and used swear words.
It’s like that.
I don’t know how this is all relevant; I just know that it all exists. It’s just sad that it can exist in the same world as Count Chocula and Alkaline Trio and Tony Hawk and Domino’s Pizza and french kisses and sunlight and snowflakes and clever writers and cleverer readers.
Shit.