I hate this.
What's wrong with me?
I don't want to be this self-absorbed. I don't want to be this jealous. I want to be happy. I don't want to cry anymore. I don't want to be here anymore.
Sometimes I feel like a painting. Paintings can be viewed in different ways by different people. My painting is that of a Bohemian vagrant that looks as though
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I love you Chelsea. Don't even think of killing yourself.
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And if you want to go by that analogy of painting/patron (it doesn't do our situation justice, but whatever) I'm not in other galleries, admiring other art; I'm outside, on the sidewalk, waiting for some annoying security guard to let me back in so I can get back to admiring my painting.
You think I have the slightest interest in other girls here? I mean, did I have an interest in other girls in Vancouver? Believe me, if I was stupid or blind enough to be looking for other girls, I would have done it before moving the the muslim-fundamentalist city where everyone speaks another language.
You have my heart. And I can't start giving away what I don't have anymore, now can I?
One day we will look back and laugh at this.
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I love you more than you could ever imagine.
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