the trace

i want to be the willoughby to her ethel

woke up from another dream where i watch the person i love die and my heart is racing and my brain is empty of all thoughts but fear and a desire to reach out

you do not need a substack you are nineteen with no job and no friends

thinking about tobacco season always

i never got to try texas roadhouse how bad am i missing out

i'm a secret butch i could treat you so right just give me a year to become anything you want me to be

femme domme save me come to me femme domme old woman with glasses and crows feet and grey hair

a pretty view that makes you cry and an even prettier girl running around and being silly that makes you cry even harder

i wish reality shifting were real i would go be a sheep farmer in the bogs that wears cool boots and woos the ladies with my exotic southern charm and has a cute sheepdog and bigger muscles and a worse farmer's tan