I'm a hypochondriac.
Although wouldn't it be just like a hypochondriac to try and diagnose themselves as a hypochondriac? A medical and philosophical conundrum, to say the least.
My dread of
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"Where the hell are we going anyway?" Cynthia asks Jess in a stern tone.
We've been on the road for several hours, stuck in Jess's mini cooper listening to nothing but Harry Styles and Miley
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When I was a kid
I thought "What's up with this shit?"
Every girl was growing up to marry a
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My bloodless white fingers grasped my thighs, squeezing away like Sunday lemonade. I gasped, letting my head fall back. I thumbed the lining of my shorts, finding a loose thread and pulling hard. No ... [+]
Sent up to look out,
Taking shots of the moons.
Yet not without,
A self-loving swoon.
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Mallory Johnson lived in the suburbs behind a white picket fence and a dark pine door. Her husband called her "Mal" when he trudged in late on the weekends, drunk and tired. David Smith was a working ... [+]
I naturally started writing with my left hand because it just felt right.
I held a pen in my
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2016.
I am a new patient at a partial hospitalization program in Rancho Cucamonga, California. I didn't want to come here; for the duration of my time in this program I'll be living alone in an
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Would there still be hunger
when there's no one to eat?
Would there still be sufferings
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I changed my profile photo yesterday.
It's a photograph taken in the Central Park, NYC.
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A long time ago, in a lonely forest, lived three unlucky friends.
Vanished into the land of the lost souls, they were outcasts left to perish—left with nothing but regret and anguish.
It
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Blue has come to visit my hometown,
The unwelcome visitor leaves bookmarks on the worn
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