I was lonely. I drank a 40 oz., by my lonesome. I'm drunk. I look into the mirror.

I actually feel the sincere urge to say, "Id fuck myself."

Not myself, But someone with a more elusive personality. Makes sense?

I went on this chartoulette site but with just dudes. I was drunk. Judge all
You want. Do you want to know what I LITERALLY, did? Jerked off a tad, then I spoke to all
The younger kids about love. I told themhow they shouldn't jerk off for strangers. It's detrimental. I shoved my erect penis aside, & helped kids. I'm
Pretty sure I'm a fucking saint. I'm
Ready for the rapture. That, right there, is enough to send me
To heaven
Psh. Please. Y'all bitches think I'm going to hell? Check out these wings muddahfuckuhz!

I'm wearing a vintage yellow & green SnapBack that says "athletics." Was that all it took? Me showing the slightest form of hip & stereotypical masculinty? Or is it the grim bittersweet taste of olde English malt liquor?There's confidence. I washed my far with St. Ives Apricot Scrub. It's advised by many. I suggest trying it. It really scrubs your face.

I wish I got myself. Ciara, Kealy, Sam, Kiren, Alex, everyone. Everyone gets me, but me. I'm suck of complaining. I feel like Kenny. Fucking complaining. Ugh I'm not Kenny. I'm not Lizzie McGuire. I have better boobs.


My nipples are hypnotic. I've used them for good. But it's more fun to use them for evil. They keep me happy. Especially on bad workdays with Austin.

I wanna love myself. But. Do
I have to find myself, to have someone to love? Or do I have to love the person that I am, to find myself?

I script my life, to put it in some form of "order."

I feel like Daria, without the critical acclaim.