Friday, July 3, 2015. Could you be more in awe of the shape I am taking? Methuselah, at age 969, exasperated and blasé and calm to a fault, waits by the oven for toast. It blackens with a crunch, and Methuselah, at age 969, crunched and blackened himself, takes a mouthful. Monday, March 30, 2015. Ella, born with blonde in her hair and a strong jaw, takes the bus to school. They are typically good listeners, or at least they are polite enough to pretend.

Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same. Sunday, July 12, 2015. This chapter in my life is over. Two horrible, beautiful years. To be honest, it ended a year ago. I was still in love with the words. I was still in love with him. Well i guess i still am. Because they are no longer mine.

My Journey of Self-Recovery and Pessimism - Alis Priddy. like, what the hell is a jiggy and why do you want to be with it? Anyway, if you want.

Tuesday, February 10, 2015. A post for Pretty Girls. Drowning from the tears of the one who despises me the most. Drowning because I did it, I finally did it. I cried and cried and cried and expected her to do the same. She told me I was pretty.

Wednesday, July 9, 2014. Just now have I figured out what old people mean when they say getting old sucks. I had an appointment with adulthood today and it was a definite disappointment. Everyone there was mean and not helpful.

I Gave Her My Heart, She Gave Me A Pen. Saturday, November 8, 2014. Board shorts and flip flops. Memories of board shorts and flip flops. Snow cones and hikes in the mountains. Early morning bike rides and late night walks in the park. Waking up to the sunrise and falling asleep under the stars. Movie marathons and days at lagoon.

What Happened When Our Lips Locked. All the hardest, coldest people you meet were once as soft as water. Saturday, July 11, 2015. My street has milk cartons for houses,. Paper-thin walls decomposing with every spoonful of sugar. Last night i heard her bed frame beat against the wall like fists. But i think about him sometimes.

Sunday, May 25, 2014. I am lost in Paris. At first it was a beautiful dream. I have dark stalkers always three steps behind. No one speaks my language. The only things that speak to me are the writings on the walls. The paintings on the walls. To many dark shadows are covering them. You have every reason to be worried, you put me here. I got caught up in the beauty of all of you. Heaven help you when I get out. And trust me I will. I do not like the indie k.

Nobody wants to hear you cry about the grief inside your bones. Monday, April 28, 2014. Teach me how to rhyme. The girls who sing to their hairbrushes about fame. The ballers who got no game. For the money treated all the same.