I used to hated walking out of a movie.
I'm not well in the head. So I'm just going to q-tip my brain right now, and write whatever word comes out as quickly as I can.
Plain cottage funding closet iron sleep deprivation depriving souls son sunflower exhibit love cotton and appearance absence father issues extremely painful plane down into ocean sore because establishment development dull moment bear bare berry straw gold blonde sweet beer bottle chip tooth salsa dip party fiesta nightly rate motel crave you tote bag vehicle invigorated driver unmistakable passenger exhilaration doesn't seat slew sloth fly porn pornographic off head slide mansion sound music notes secret private class high education marijuana drugs sex alcohol hair pulling drilling alchemy chivalry shivering glitter crank men twirl spin rabbit hole unpaved road dead end float fly die.
As I read through the triggers and patterns in my choice of words, I can only conclude that there are so many things wrong with my psyche.
So, so many things.
I always get paranoid. I know that Mr. Tozzie in my AP History class would say, "If you think they're talking about you, stop. They're not. I wouldn't even be that narcissistic to think I'm important enough to others to be talked about."
I woke up in my bed alone, facing an untouched box of complimentary chocolates between the legs of my large Teddy. I'm notorious for finding food in my bed. Sometimes it's okay to eat. Other times, I spit it out.
Disgusting. I know, I know.
Off in the distance somewhere, a bartender weeps.
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