I Am Not My Thoughts

I guess I’ll keep these photos. It is evidence.
I better order something before I get too fucked up.
You can like my look if you want to but it offends me that you can’t see past it.
I’m not high enough.
That’s the one. I look like a fucking clown. And somehow people still love clowns. But clowns are scary.
What kind of climate don’t roaches live in?
My stomach hurts.
Sure, I feel gross and look gross but I don’t have to be sober.
That’s stupid. You must also be.
It’s separated into two bellies now a lower half tire and an upper half tire. A full tire just in the front like two big ol cosmetically plumped stomach sized lips.
If I could just clear my mind I’d be okay.
And the fact that you occasionally still want to fuck me is weird. I mean I’m not just fat, I’m crazy.
It’s not up to me though, I’m not invested.
I don’t want to complain anymore about how much it costs if I’m willing to pay.
I should turn the heat on.
I never wanted you, I just wanted someone and I know you feel the same.
I think our relationship is best served behind panes of glass.
Points seem to make us all feel less useless.
I’ll prove it to myself some day.
Fuck it. I’ll just order more food hugs. Gonna die anyway.
I look my age. Disappointing.
I go tooooooooo far, that’s all, with every fucking thingggg.
I could look for good parts. It just don’t add up to shit though.
Maybe some part of this matters but I don’t think so.
I’ll have to believe it first.

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