Magic 8 balls should not be trusted, least of all as life guru’s.
When asked (masochistic I know) whether or not to message the ex, it replies as a bratty, demanding toddler. As if I haven’t been punished enough now I have the added bonus of enduring the mocking of the Magic 8 ball.
What’s life without whimsy is not an excuse, trust me. In these trying times good old fashioned bad-ass, banging rock beats and a fag fix all… Adding a much needed edge of coolness to any awkward self deprecating situation. disclaimer: the sex pistol’s anarchy in the uk is not conducive to household cleaning/chores. The two are mutually exclusive.
So once again, so many things go unsaid. I have so much to tell you and at the sometime nothing at all, oh poetic irony. I’ve made it three weeks, the biggest test of my sanity comes tomorrow – coldplay concert. The epicentre of hormonally charged females, the heartbroken and the confused and befuddled boyfriend awkwardly trying to pretend that he agrees that coldplay songs are “oh my god hauntingly like sooo true,”. No doubt I’ll think of you, and I’ll miss you and I’ll want to message you. But I won’t. Healing you slow blighter you, some acceleration would be much appreciated.