Today I woke up wishing I never fell asleep. All of my insides on the brink of explosion. I want to yack. Must. scrub. every inch of skin. Between this banging in my head and the image of you walking in with a bottle of Jack filled to the brim with maleficent intent is an all-consuming urge to rip you apart. You play the pity card. Always feigning selflessness. The sad life of some helpless romantic who can't help but wear his heart on his sleeves. You know precisely what you do. And what I did was take you in with open arms. Now what you can do is fuck off for good.
Ludwig, Jean S., Claude, keep me sane.
