I want to hate like a magazine misquote. The ingrained, un-heal-able stitch hate, there’s always a reminder of. I thought that’s what this was.
Lily Allen can’t win: offending somebody somewhere whatever it is she says and for every person saying I have a sound mind, all see-through Heisenberg blue, ten tell me I don’t and I’m not and what the fuck am I actually thinking?
Total privilege of being understood. How much I’d pay for, biscuit packets. I’m glad you don’t roll cigarettes, though it’s better than licking envelopes. The gum’s not gluten-free, you know? And neither’s my shower gel.
Domestication’s the death of me for un-obvious reasons. Because looking at you like this, is, insert adjectives here. Shit, I think all of them.
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