Headache in a bloody fucking suitcase
“Can you tell that I picked my poison well?
That I have no more to sell to you?
Is it really that important that I settle down?
Does it really even matter that I have my doubts?”
Fuck me for not trying harder to make the most of the life I have. I’ve gone and fucked it all up, and now I do care. But still…why is my life going to be measured by how sure and stable I am? I don’t want to settle and I don’t want people to feel sorry for me for not being all together all the time. I’m the only one who can decide whether or not my life is satisfying, okay?
I’m very unhappy now, but I’m not going to be like this forever. I hope I won’t. I hope I really haven’t fucked up for good.
“No one said I was thrown away…have I been thrown away?”
It will get better. It is *not* all fucked up, no matter what you did or didn’t do. Unless you ran over a nun. Then, you’re gone. As it turns out, the most incredible and awe-inspiring people are rarely the stable ones.
You. Are. Awesome. Period.