brainvomit?

It’s a horrifying moment when you find yourself googling the cost of plastic surgery and you’re only upset because it’s so far out of your price range. 

What am I doing to myself. 

I don’t remember how to reply to comments or how to work my mail, and pretty much no one follows me, so I’m just going to write you a nice little note because I think sometimes people like getting notes just to them so that’s what I’m doing.

I don’t know how to go see movies, they involve either human contact or admitting you’re lonely enough to go to one alone (which I did once, it was to the new winnie the pooh and I was the only one in the theatre except for one couple in the back snogging it up, talk about feeling alone) but I’l go see it soon and then your Avengers posts will be guilt free.

Also

We are finishing high school in approximately, what 52 hours? Which means we’ll never have to smell a cafeteria again and we’ll never have to get stuck walking behind someone with their swag on again and we’ll never have to spend time in a classroom with that one kid that we’ve hated since middle school again and we’ll never have to take seven hours of classes in a row again and we’ll never have to watch out for vomiting slow kids again and we’ll never have to do homework for our parents again and we’ll never have to ashamedly admit that we’re in high school again and we’ll never have to go through a dateless/wow-i-have-a-shitty-date dance again and we’ll never have to worry about being one of those really weird kids again and we’ll never have to worry about getting into college again and we’re almost done with all of it. I don’t care if some people say it will be one of the greatest parts of our lives. If they’re right, I might just have to kill myself. 

We’re so close to having better lives. I’m so sure of it. I want to see you over the summer before you run away to your exciting new life in Buffalo. You’re one of literally about twelve people from this poop dumpster that I am going to legitimately miss. Please don’t be a stranger.

End of weird nostalgic hopeful breakdown end of high school rant.

It has to get better than this.

Here’s some Claptin prints for good measure, though.

 

I know it’s the Vicodin talking, but God you’re hurting me right now.