Well, after a month and a half of not smoking, I caved.

I fucking suck.


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I have the house to myself for the next four days.

And unlike most teenagers there will be no party or whatever.

But, hopefully a lot of alcohol to myself so I can wallow in self pity. Yay.


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I'm so fucking mad at God for doing this to you

travelsinpage:

These fucking words don’t mean
A single goddamn thing
And living doesn’t mean anything
And breathing is only
Allowing thousands of switchblades into your stomach
And instead of butterflies you only feel
Horror,
Like, “How could anything mean anything after you”
And how could the world rotate any…


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I relapsed on the idea of us.
Again.
Since you’ve been back
My stomach is in a knot.
I need you back,
I want us back,
I need myself back.

Andrew Pagano (via poems-by-pagano)

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In the past week I have watched eight seasons of How I Met Your Mother. It sounds weird, but those eight seasons changed me. I’ve been in love with the same girl since I had first sat across from her at a booth in Denny’s. I’m Ted Mosby, as you are Robin Sherbatsky. I’m the sappy romantic while she has a much harder exterior. I would stop whatever I was currently doing if it would mean going to you just to see you smile during a hard time. I could meet any other girl, and she would never live up to the idea of you. Sadly, Ted Mosby doesn’t end up with Robin. And that makes me feel so uneasy. I love her uunconditionally. I take any signs from the universe to get you back in my arms again, and fight any signs that say the opposite. Maybe I’m such a hopeless romantic that I portray my life onto a show that may not portray the message I see in it. Maybe I’m just so fucking lonely.


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Panic attacks and sleepless nights are literally going to kill me.


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A writer is someone for whom writing is more difficult than it is for other people.
Thomas Mann (via quotesandnonsense)

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