This could end.

People don't.

Tart spreading the news

Find something you love and hold on to it for as long as you can. Don't find something to love and hold on to it for as long as you can.

I can't fucking do this any more.

Stand on my throat and make me feel something new.

Twelve layers deep and I shallow

Fight Club but for crying.

I fantasise about you because I fancy who you're not.

I don't know what I've done. Thought crime, presumably.

Time machines that only travel forward.

Why.

I fell easy so never pushed myself and that's fine because where does pushing ever get you.

Why am I staying alive for these people when they make me wish for death

I can't live like this.

Drink is killing me and keeping me alive.

there's nothing of me left

Sleasis and Sluthead

To the tune of Baby Shark: fuck this shit

A measure of ease versus popularity. A measure of impulse versus requirement for premeditation. No more than than two boxes of paracetamol versus a gun in the drawer.

I think we've lost. Maybe we've lost.

For better or worse, all there is is people.

all this ICE stuff is just to distract you from trannies making drama

The world is a terrifying and awful place and if you can extract any net joy from it, you've beaten the odds. Do the thing.

Sir, a woman banging you is like a dog's walking on his hind legs. It is not done well; but you are surprised to find it done at all.

Always a dull moment.

Fucking ahhhhhhh.

Home.

I lost who I was so fucking long ago that I don't even remember who that person might've been.