I feel like everyone's waiting for me to make a move, imprecise and uncalculated, like the move of a chess player who has taken part in a game that has droned on for much too long, mind weak, nerves bending, willing him to just give up.

But perfectionism allows me little to no impulse. It allows me nothing but numbers and thoughts and organization ( Read more... )

I miss the feeling of purpose in my fingertips.

What the hell has happened to me?

"I love you." Her voice melts into the air, thick and overwhelming, like beads of putrid sweat bleeding steadily over one's brow-line. She doesn't mean it, I can tell, but she wants to mean it. She wants to look into my eyes and peel back the surface, find her reflection in the depths of my pupils, admire every inch of her image, and ease back ( Read more... )

I could have read your fucking mind that day ( Read more... )

There's never anything good to say. There's never anything to say, period.

Tonight, I will let her do all the fucking talking, and she will speak so tenderly against my aching thighs.

FUCK BEING NICE. I WANT YOU TO CHOKE.

"Cute conservative" is an oxy-moron,
and any shirt that reads "I think, therefore I am not Glenn Beck" should be framed.

I thought you were different.
I thought you were different.
I thought you were different.
I thought you were different.
I thought you were different.
I thought you were different.
I thought you were different.
I thought you were different.

You've made a fool out of me.

If I am eating the checkers, be glad they aren't your fingernails.

Lights out, sister. Tell the warden I've gone awfully mad.

I can do better than this.

Someone tell me I can do better than this.

I think I could live this way forever, darling,
staring at my shoes.