duty free past tolls.
foot-filled odor stenches nasal cavities, but the navy-clothed officials care only for scrawled words on pink slips. sirens ring in the distance. they ransack cars filled with slim-fast and weedkiller as we zoom down the freeway.
birch run is for losers… anywhere in the world where the american stereotype is so extremely exemplified - where obese consumerism runs wild - is so wrong, it disgusts me. if we see it to tomorrow, i will be thankful that fate has spared us from a Luke-Wilson-esque nightmare of motel horror. boredom seeps through my pores, wrapping itself around the cores of my synaptic nerves. the...
[you choose to love the hard way.]
i feel as if all the hate inside me is crawling like ants under my skin. i can’t push it out into the world; i can’t make it leave. it’s making me nauseous, but vomiting a colony of ants onto the beaten carpet is an image too vivid to bring to life. where are the colours? all i see is brightly blinding blackness; it presses onto me, surrounds me, suffocates me. i want to die.
you talk for hours, but you’re wasting lines.– all time low, break your little heart