oh. i don’t know if i would be friends with myself, if i wasn’t me. sometimes i like me, i’m pretty cool. other times i hate me and i can’t stand my body and my laugh and my face and my strange uncoolness. a lot of the time i think i’m clever… i am clever, really. i’m proud of that, even if it’s not cool. i think my thighs are disgusting but my tummy is cool. i think my nose and bum are traded with a black persons. i think my hair is pretty suckish. i think my weirdness is individual but probably scares people. i don’t like my ocd. i have weird toes. i’m too laid back, but i like it. i’m ok, overall. i think so anyway. but outstanding? perhaps not. maybe that’s why i’m single.

I wish I had someone to rely on and to make me smile and to call in the night and hug while I’m crying and actually care

I ruin everything.

it’s fact, either I ruin it or it doesn’t work out. that’s how it always is. you know the main dislike I have about myself is (actually my thighs but) how much I hurt people. how much I let them down. all because of him, really.

I don’t think I’ve ever felt quite so alone.