ahanson
I feel like a fucking convict, running from the law, and it has absolutely nothing to do with me. I refuse to answer the door when the cops are looking for you. I refuse to open my mouth when the cops are asking about you. I am not a convict. It is you, and you alone.
I never liked the idea of transforming into a butterfly. I'd much rather stay an ugly, unappreciated caterpillar. They're the ones who get to gorge themselves into oblivion, after all, and I very much like the idea of spending all my time eating.
If he pulls that stupid stunt one more time, I have every right to take his face off, turn it inside out, and stick it back on so that when he walks into bars looking for some young fucking pussy, they'll see what sort of person he really is: one ugly mother fucker with a scary ass wife.
I was leading him into the trees, unthinking and unafraid, but this was a mistake. I didn't know that he would cut down those so precious to me. I didn't know that he would use them to build a fire. I didn't know that I would lose the only companions I had. Now, though, I know better than anyone not to trust Jimmy Feron.
I hate hearing the voices calling out in the evening. Everyone's mother is standing on the back porch, shouting for them to come home. I loath their togetherness, their happy family structure. I swear no one will ever call out to me like that.
I was always curious about the always growing pile of pine needles in my grandfather's back yard. There wasn't a single pine tree back there, and whenever I tried to dig through it he would shoo me away, telling me that I didn't want to know what was berried in there. Three months after he passed away, though, I found out how right he was. Hidden beneath those pine needles were the bodies of missing girls.
I don't understand the basics of what most people are saying--not because I am unintelligent, but because they are so incredibly unintelligent and it hurts my mind trying to shrink itself down to such a miniscule size.
I just used the backspace key about thirty times as I tried to figure out what I would write(the second time) for this word. How silly it is that an author exercise her skills in such a way.
I wish life were like the backspace button on my keyboard. No matter how many times I misspell a word, I can go back and retry, but in life we all just get up in the morning and fail. And fail. Again and again.
I dislike the idea of morals. I don't care whether you have "good" ones or "bad" ones. It's all complete and utter bull shit. No one has better morals than anyone else, but everyone thinks theirs are the best.
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