and all A’s. but thanks for your concern Warren Hills.
You make me feel like a horrible person. Like I’m the sort of person who wants to be unhappy. Like I’m the sort of person who loves being ignored. Who loves being a disappointment. Who loves being second-best. Third- best. Fourth-best. Because that’s what I am, isn’t it? No matter what I do. How far I go. I’ll always be “difficult.” I’ll be “not nice.” I’ll turn into my father, won’t I? I’ll leave. I’ll put myself first. I’ll hurt everyone around me. Fuck yeah, I will. I’ll leave this place. I’ll never come back. I’ll put myself first, because no one else is going to. The best intentions don’t get you very far; they don’t get you anywhere at all.
tell me one more time that i did this to myself, that i was all wrong about the things i thought i felt. watch me as i stand with my hands on my hips, making your words come out of my lips. i became the excuse that you gave me, i became exactly what you made me.
Art is a communist trade. It is meant for everyone, everyone who is capable of emotion; capable of hate, of fear, of love, of sadness, everyone who is capable of feeling. Just feeling, just existing, however, is not enough. As always, simply existing is never enough. The act of feeling, utilizing our nerve endings and awakening our senses, does not make us artists. That makes us human. What makes an artist is the chain smoking of one’s memories, the re-creation of feeling. Art is the second-hand form of passion. It is the re-telling of our humanity. Behind everything we deem to be art, must be a person sharing a fragment of their soul.
i could get nothing else for Christmas, i could get nothing at all, and that would be alright. because i’ve got you.
my brobro is a lifeguard; therefore he gets a new whistle, complete with summer camp-esque lanyard.
whoever said homemade gifts were out of style was never as crafty as me.. or as broke as me.