i need you to stop so i can leave.

i feel broken and alone and stupid and afraid.
my favorite combination.

it's a classic, really.

everything, in the deep dark recesses and crevasses, is so much better than anything out in wind scorched reality.

i was sold on a lie and
i hope to die in a dream - a huge, fantastic, wonder-full dream where you never existed.

there must be a bucket full of pills somewhere, waiting for me, now that youth has failed me. right?
there are so many (other, non fun) things waiting for me. they just sit in stopped inertia, waiting for me to do something with them. "here or there?" they say. here or there. it matters - at least a flight and two weeks worth of someone else's time, anyway. i don't want to have babies. i shouldn't. no one should.

paris is something i want. and england. or, at least, would like to taste. why am i here? i continue to not understand.
as much as i'd like, you can't help me.
only this ink, which i can't remember when i should.
fuck. it's 3 and this is why i stopped talking to whiskey. it's too much of a paralizing, holding, stunning, idiotic embrace.

i blame puppy. you should too. stop it.