KILLCRASH!

I have come to find that exgirlfriends means never getting your shit back.

fuckthegifs:

If someone had given that girl a bikini kill album this could have been avoided.

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nowplz. 

you know what’s awkward? Having your exes underwear left at your house. What do you do with it? Keep like a creep, or throw it away, what if they want it back.

I have to try. If I don’t, who knows where I’ll end up? I need to try and get her back. One shot. I don’t know why, but I miss the shit ot of her, and it’s not just cause I’m lonely.

This is all I need. Maybe a blowjob. Chyeah!

beautilation:

I am bored. I am people watching. Fascinating. WInter clothes mixed with a few hoodies and the brave occasional t-shirt. A coffee shop filled with alternately construction workers in overalls, and young proffesionals with laminated lanyards. Some go outside to smoke, hover around a central ashtray and converse lightly. Like the begginings of a beehive at 12:00 the buzz begins, a faint and dstant rumble broken by the occasional sharp click of a sensible high heeled shoe against polished floors. Rythmic white noise, building like a ccophony as lunchtime approaches, cafes, sandwiches, coffee, beans being ground. Nicotine, sharply inhaled. The jangling of large metal bracelets worn by the older employee with the stark red hair. Desperatley retaining a part of the youth culture she no longer represents. And I am ignored. In my counter space, I am faceless. Another collared shirt behind a computer, a welcoming smile appearing on my face and stfling yawns when a customer approaches and I repeat my mantra. Some people dread those words, “how can I help you?”. A grim reminder of years spent in lowpaying menial jobs. Of teenage years spent awkwardly attempting to a job that was not wanted. I take comfort in my catch phrase, knowing tht is one thing that is older than I, possibly older than anyone will ever realize, simple pleasentries, to be exchanged upon those brief one time meetings with a stifle yawn and a polite smile. i will repeat that moantra, that catch phrase, that older than time refernce callingback to bygone aes unnoticed. I watch more as the customers dwindle, lunch break is over. The stragglers eat chicken parmesan lovingly reheatd and served in a spotless white dish with a fork tasting faintly of tin. They too finish, and walk. With clicking high heels and purpose and intent. I sit still and watch as the crowd parts for a customer of mine, They look bewldered at the signs of the lobby, then it’s my turn. To join in and not to watch. I repeat the old as time phrase, nd a smile plays upon her lips. Releif coming quickly as she realizes that yes! someone can help her! Yes they’re right in front of her! And the smile vanishes, as she very quickly realizes that This. Is. Not. Ticketmaster.