(no subject)
I am: the empitome of absurdity.
I think: that my wrist hurts like ow.
I know: I'll always be alone
I hate: being so close, yet so far...
I don't: LIKE SPAM
I can't: lead my own life anymore
I can: bake you cookies if you come keep me company =3
I will: whine unless you come keep my company
I won't: get anymore crushes on unobtainable people
I miss: Caring about my work, and my life.
I fear: The dark, guns, spiders
I feel: Incomplete
I hear: Foo Fighters 'Times Like These'
I smell: Spaghetti
I crave: Cuddles =3 and noodles.
I wonder: why my wrist hurts so
I regret: opening my mouth
I love: Shoes
I dream: of suicide, of shattered glass and mirrors, of people I will never really know.
I long: for ballet fetish boots
I care: for few people, these days.
I always: dig a hole for myself, then fall down it
I am not: your mother. I'M NOT, okay!
I believe: in the laws of the universe, particularly the rule of three/karma
I sing: constantly, in a horrible fashion
I smile: because I don't really know what's going on
I laugh: rarely
I collect: bitter memories and pain
I play: THE BASSOOON! (for you, claire)
I write: sick, depraved poetry that only I understand and can piece together, and stories for children such as 'Billy's first blow job' and 'The bunyip and the hooker'
I await: society's downfall
I cook: lots, and well.
I trust: Kia. Lloyd. My Doggy. Adele.
I intend: to stick a pea in your ear.
I search: for the right pair of sunnies
I look: down your shirt
I shout: a lot. Obnoxiously.
I whisper: brokenly, when I cry.
I conquer: the isle of man
I listen: when I'm not daydreaming
I ignore: people who aren't worth my time. Most are, but you get those people...
I live: in a pit of my own depression. With cookies.