I felt commemorated when I was able to get up in front of 80 strangers and share my story and feel their love, support and appreciation for me even though we'd never met before.
Clearly you’ve done something wrong and you’re weeping apologies because maybe that will get them to take the cuffs off your wrists and ankles so you can curl into a ball and break apart properly in the relative safety and comfort of a fetal position.
He played scrabble with clientele when it was slow, and read fat worn texts when there was no one who wanted to play, and even though I think books are sexy as fuck I never remembered what he was reading because I was distracted by the beautiful ink scrawled all over his arms.
Even his voice, which is a delicious force nature in its own right, wasn’t enough to reel me in. Maybe I’m giving him too much credit because with the way I’m wired you can slap some bitchin’ eye makeup on just about anything with a penis and I go all cross-eyed with desire.
I’m dying for research that says I can be brilliant with no consequences.
I'm a bipolar alcoholic which, let me tell you, is just delightful. I also hate men and don't shave my legs. I have broken up with that hole in the ground but we still fuck fairly regularly (ew).