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Today I really like my bangs

since I think I am pretty to you.

Isn't it good to be in love? Isn't it rash of me to not find an impeccable metaphor? I feel shaky anxiety in my ribs, and I check the clock until it bleeds my favorite numbers =

I've

not

done this since my last patient. You said you liked the dark white placid texture, and 90s rock softened our tears into blurred violet againt lime. Willow-paper for blinds. It's the Decemberists, baby, and it's so cold it's sweet.

Can you believe I want to go all-out just for you?