Made with loveI fucked up.
(via kushandwizdom)
The end of the story is never the end of the story.
This is going to be me tomorrow.
There I go—thinking of you again
You don’t know how sick you make me
You make me fuckin’ sick to my stomach
Every time I think of you, I puke
You must just not know—whoa-whoa-whoa-whoa
You may not think you do, but you do
Every time I think of you I puke
You look good, too. Are you eating less or just barfing more?
It seems to me the problems you worry yourself sick about never seem to materialize. It’s the ones that catch you unexpectedly on a Wednesday afternoon that knock you sideways.
(via postsecret)
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