Kill my body so as to kill my mind
Why can't it ever be that simple? Complications lead me to misinterpret emotions. Then I'm fucked. I need to be more than good at something. I need to be great at something. What else is the point?
My life is one big incident of bad timing and mistaken identity. A Shakespearean comedy on broadway.
I'm more mad at myself than anyone else...still...
Passenger Pidgeon
Nothing is more real or stereotypically beautiful than a person at their worst...because when we are at our worst, we are the most honest and true versions of ourselves...we are a clean palette that awaits only improvement...nothing else.
I'm still anxiously awaiting a heroic effort or a drug that makes me aware, not ugly.
