Omg. It's 11:30 on a Friday night and I'm at home drinking my dad's alcohol because I'm sad and I'm sad over a boy who doesn't care and it's really pathetic to be even blogging about this because for 1) it's a personal matter and 2) I don't know who reads this and I'm singing sad songs and I'm on the verge of crying and I've already binged/purged almost four boxes of cereal and now there's not any milk left and that upsets me because I really wanted a pb&j but you need milk to go with it for obvious reasons and I really miss my best friend and I don't know why she even puts up with me because I'm always talking about boy and I'm sure it gets old real fast and I should stop drinking because my dad is going to notice and it doesn't even taste good because it's some coconut bullshit and whoever said you couldn't spell correctly while you're drinking is a lying asshole because I'm doing just fine and I'm even wiping away tears and there's puke in my hair and it's touching my face and I should be repulsed by this but it doesn't even phase me and I wish I was like any other 17 year old girl but I'm not and I should stop playing sad songs and feeling sorry for myself because where's that going to get me and I should stop being such a cunt to people who care about me but I can't help it and I'm just really sad because I've never liked someone this much and it's the onLY THING ON MY MIND RIGHT NOW AND I'M SO SORRY.

While I'm reading your blog, I'm mentally fixing every spelling and grammar error that you've failed to correct.

You're a senior.

You're eighteen.

You're going to college.

You've been taught proper grammar for a reason. Use it.

Done.

Awh, I love you.

In a perfect town, in a perfect state, in a perfect world, we'd all receive what we wish. We'd all meet the love of our lives, marry them and live happily ever after by their side. We'd all do exceptionally well in school, be accepted into the college of our choice and apply to the job of our dreams. We'd shake hands with our boss, shoot a smile at our co-workers and be walking into the door by dinner time. We'd kiss our significant other on the cheek, high-five our children and quickly feed the family cat. We'd all be happy. We'd all grow old. We'd all fade away with a grin on our face.

But Utopia doesn't exist.

Coffee, tea, diet soda.

Fasting from the 8th to the 20th.
What's up.