I think I’m going to marry the guy who understands my humor and jokes along. He’s going to be the one that listens to my boring ass stories and still is intrigued (or maybe just staring at me). I’m fine with someone who makes fun of me here and there, but at the end of the day, I want to be the girl that he thinks about and he will be the only guy that will continually bring back butterflies.
For every bizarre thing I receive on le telephone.
Note to self: do not talk to fuckin weirdos out of pity and boredum because this may result in excessive messaging even though you never respond like the bitch you are. This leads to false hope and broken dreams and bad karma. Oopsies. Plus, this shit gets in the way of my zen-ness.
I hate that I’m always on the edge. About everything and anything. I hate having to bite my nails and wallow in panic and impatience for the moment of gratification. I hate that it always makes me feel like I have to be validated—while I wait, overwrought, for the results but always in the back of my head knowing I’ll be fine. Everything feels like a pop quiz that I know I didn’t study for. I hate that I allow for my severe anxiety and paranoia to dictate the person that I am. If it weren’t for this flaw, I feel like I could have better relationships, I could be more extroverted, I could be happier. I hate settling for what’s mediocre when I could have what’s greater.