Tragedy on so many levels. Worst Thriller ever but admittedly still fun as hell. Until the end of the night that is. As always. My faith in everything has gotten so incredibly low that I am beginning to question my own logic. Hope can only bring us so far in this. One and only one good day out of seven long, meticulous ones. I can hardly wrap my mind around half they things we say. It's mind-boggling really; the amount of oh-my-fucking-god that goes on. Trust perched precariously on the edge. Phones and other miscellaneous items flung angrily at walls, mirroring the spiteful words shooting from our lips. I am tired. I hate it when my mother makes sense. And I hate how painfully easy it was to admit that I know it isn't working anymore. We have changed so much that everything we used to have is no longer recognizable. Everything has turned into spite and accusation, credit and blame-pushing, grudges and irritability. I don't even know how I feel about anything anymore because the loneliness I feel when I am around you is so fucking overbearing. Irony Irony. It is the last day of the week already.
I can't force these eyes to see the end
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