Tuesday, October 12, 2010

part 839854059049580 and two.

when I write, I still pretend its you im talking to.
and there is so much I fucking dispize in you.
its rediculous. really fucking rediculous.
were not compatable. at all. and it would be a misrable relationship.
id bitch at you constantly, and feel like I was comunicating with a baby.

you repeat yourself. you have no self doubt.
you should. your a fucking retard half the time.
and your singing. it cracks, and sounds awful.
you like rap. your to skinny. you date to many woman,
to feel accepted because your mom abandoned you.
youve never loved. your imature. you have no comitment.
you dont know how you feel. you dont open up.
you had bad breath once. and hadnt showered for four days.
(that was actually kind of sexy) but gross. shower!
you listen to "folk punk" and say "its just so free"
when it sounds like SHIT.
and you SOUND LIKE SHIT.
your an avoider. you have wierd nipples.
your obsessed with chapstick.
I hate your bed. you dont cuddle.
and OH JESUS I hate your laugh.
when you REALLY think something is funny.
and it catches you off gaurd and you sound like your choking. or snorting something backwards.
I hate that noise. I hate you. I hate your phone. I hate your sense of humor.

and you still have my books. just leave them on my doorstep or something.
or use them to give yourself a million tiny paper cuts.
or just come over and ask me out.

sleep in your bed, with bad breath wearing layors of chapstick laughing really hard about stupid stuff while listening to folk punk cuz its soooooo fucking freeeee. and you can cheet on me with ten different girls, and not talk about your mom, and be a cocky unshowred asshole. and Ill still cry when you leave.

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