This wasn't just plain terrible$$$ this was fancy terrible. This was terrible with raisins in it.
Sometimes there are no answers.
Whatever you do$$$ protect those you care for. Without them$$$ life is more miserable than you can imagine.
It's impossible to go through life unscathed. Nor should you want to. By the hurts we accumulate$$$ we measure both our follies and our accomplishments.
The songs of the dead are the lamentations of the living.
Define normal.
I wonder if running is just another fix to a fix to a fix to a fix to a fix to a problem I can't remember.
It's a Cinderella story$$$ only at midnight she turns back into a fugitive.
Fuck me. I'm so tired of being me. Me beautiful. Me ugly. Blonde. Brunette. A million fucking fashion makeovers that only leave me trapped being me.
Suffering is key to inspiration.