It’s weekends and I am under pressure. All thanks to my three days of crying. Wednesday, Thursday and Friday. Yeah, I cried and cried like a semi-retarded housewife who lost her permanant-basis sweetheart in a bomb blast.
Why? Oh no! I am not going to write them down.
Even if I jotted them down, one by one, phrase by phrase, I am sure to end up feeling so helpless for unable to squeeze out any potential juice to solve it.
Anyway nobody gives a flying fuck about it. Haha!
Rather than getting overly sad over problems that is driving me to the death-bed on weekend, guess it is better for me to suck some cancer-sticks and smoke these problem away.
Yeah I know. Smoking won’t help.
Perhaps I should just find something less comfortable to wear, go somewhere familiar, be bizarre, pop some pills, get more guts, fucking get a man, pretend to be happy, few rounds of heavy patting, sex sex sex, sway my arms up the ceiling, relax and happily write them down publicly on the day after, for people who hangs my picture secretly in their heart🙂
Ok I know, I don’t have much qualities to be a [insert any fucking profession u can think of yourself]
I should just do it in my dream. Ok dream away.