Who says I can’t have you? I’m totally invested in you. Your friends treat me as if it’s my fault, as if I’m exalting you purposely. I understand you’re friends with my brother. But I want you. Is that so much to ask? I’m innocent. If you think I’m going to give up, I won’t. I’ll fight my way through to you until the day you leave for Rutgers if I have to. When you come home to visit, you’re not safe either. Until I’m making my way in California, you’re my mission. I’ve never needed people to approve of what I do, and unless I overestimate you, I don’t think you require it either. So when people get in my business about it, and like to make a larger ordeal to themselves (why people are so interested in my affairs, I’ll never know) I’ll let them. That includes you, you puggish little bitch. Stay out of my shit. I don’t care about you anymore.
I think I’ll just throw it in early today, take a nap. Until tomorrow. I’m actually a PMS sufferer. I get so irritable. The only way I can describe it is… the week before my period… everyone and everything everyone does is obnoxious, and I’m drained. Otherwise, you’d all be screwed. It takes too much energy to yell at you all to shut the fuck up and stop what you’re doing. Oh, and it doesn’t help that you’re all little bitches anyway, even on all the other weeks.
