babbitly
he didn't want sympathy.
he wanted success, and power, and domination, and to win.
god, all he wanted was to win.
he didn't want sympathy for his fucking faulty ankle.
he didn't want to be in this position; here lying on the floor of the volleyball court, staring up at the ceiling his eyes filling with tears.
we grow the crops. we farm the crops. we seell the crops. we plant the crops.
it's monononous but we do it.
well, my father does most of it. I just help
I guess.
My father would probably tell you im not much of a help but im there with him everyday at 4am in the cow manuer and bugs.