sittin in my room eating craisins n pretendin i know what my art means

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  • me: damn its hot as fuck outside
  • me: *wears all black*
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    Today on Social Anxiety Theatre: mentally rehearsing elaborate justifications for completely innocuous actions just in case some hypothetical interlocutor demands an explanation.

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    Only real 90s kids remember waking up in the middle of the night seeing girls gone wild commercials on your tv

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    He likes the color pink
    and he wears doc martins.
    He’s about horror and sci-fi
    and old romantic films without color.
    He’s perfect in that eccentric, charismatic way,
    He’ll draw you in and make you laugh, feel okay.
    You’ll laugh harder with him then anyone else, ever- you’ll feel like you matter.
    I’m telling you- I guarantee it.
    His hair is a mess of curls
    His tired eyes the color of a forest, I can just see it, picture it.
    He’s completely filled with empathy
    Convinced of games of telepathy.
    He’s part of my heart
    And we’re so sensitive.
    Playing mixed CDs and smoke from a blunt,
    He is my comfort, if only I weren’t such a cunt.

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