I hate myself, I hate timing and I hate my feelings. I wish I could pry them loose with a butterknife.

Life is weird and I love it.

 My insides are made of firecrackers 

I am producing heat, flames, and often smoke, according to the dictionary that means I am, in fact, on fire.

Please see: I'm on Fire by Bruce Springsteen

Lingering in sentiment and a bottle of wine. Listening to Women and other music that reminds me of things that happened one time.

Shall you?

I simply couldn't, I simply couldn't.

Please see Widowspeak

not sleeping

listening to Make It Known by Foxygen, while pretending to smoke a cigarette. Also contemplating my terrible inner self. I may be truly disturbed, too early to tell.