Nothing jars basic bitches like a queen in all black.
We expect people to be happy. And when they’re unhappy, we assume they’re doing something wrong.
Yes, boo. I was always this crazy.
I crack a pill in half and let it slide down my throat with some blue Gatorade. And just like that, I’m back.
“You make me feel like a kid.”
Masturbating still kinda feels like stroking the devil’s paw.
If your friend didn’t want me to write poorly of him—if he wanted me to pen sweet somethings that reflected all his niceness with poetic splendor—then he shouldn’t have fucked with me.
The courage to do what makes him happy, not what makes him seem manly.
If every time I called, you answered, you’d silence the sweet dizzy of your uncertain hello.
Gold rolling papers. Duh.