Learning to fly.

I’m like if a depressed divorced middle aged man was a girl was a boy

saying i’m “back on my bullshit” implies i ever stopped being on it in the first place

“i’m still on my bullshit and i’ve decided to make it everyone else’s problem” would be more accurate

i love the fact that like… if you wanted to you could throw a chair… stool…. lamp… medium sized houseplant… even a lightweight table…. theres nothing physically stopping you from throwing furniture around, only social constructs and your own cowardice.

Don’t! Hurt! Your! Plants! They love and trust you all they are doing is being cute and green and making oxygen for your sorry ass to breathe

they dont “love” me or “trust” me. they know im a bastard and i know they are too and both of us are fully prepared for the day one of us kills the other