He sent you a gif of Shia LaBoeuf crying and told you he’s going through a lot right now.
I told myself I’d be a better person after my Dad died. This is what happened instead.
She wears her insecurity on her sleeve, but the narcissism it’s wrapped up in has colored it more prickly than pitiful.
I’ve officially lost it just enough to give the old book a shot, and I need to announce it to the world so that I don’t fall asleep on myself (and my word-riddled dreams).
Every Hebrew letter feels a bit of a torment—a reminder not just of the bad Jew I am but also the good Jew he so badly wanted to be.
It’s insane to act like the civil war that is my hormones is worthy of forgiveness, as if it’s a crime I’ve forced everyone else to take part in.
I’ve returned to a few old haunts in the last 48 hours and they’ve reminded me that the past (despite its bad rap) can pull you forward if you give it more than a sliver of chance.
I’m not at all in-tune with what my gut actually wants and craves, whether that be to indulge in something sweet or something more complex.
I’ve written about this shitty in-between state so many times before, haven’t I? Always so hopeful that revealing it all will help me change.