Cancer?
What the fuck.
Enough trying to fend off truth.
This is irrationally curel.
Thanks fate.
I think you and god love the irony of this.
This raises every digit of the relation-apocalypse-o-meter to two.
Maybe everything I touch just turns to shit.
Maybe everything I touch was already shit to begin with.
I remember what they each told me.
I remember how they all sold me.
The more I think, the further I flew from answers.
The mind goes in perpetual circles whilest in isolation.
She'd better not die on me.