I am trapped in this skin, scattered with scars.

My past is embedded in their dark colouring, their raised ridges.

It reminds me of a past tormented by unknown demons.

But they are just that, scars.

And so they remind me of a future, with every day that passes.

A future of happiness, of hope.

Every scar has a story. These stories have already been written. 

But there will be no epilogue.

I will write no more.

Of course you don’t feel good about it. You sat there and tried to make up shit for an hour and a half. You know what happens if you sit on a toilet and try to make shit for that long? ANAL PROLAPSE.
—  My lovely boyfriend (After sitting through an hour and a half long interview and feeling like I failed miserably)

I have been so unproductive all week. I’m pretty sure I’ve lost my job at this point because I’ve been too sick to go in every day and idk if the doctors note will save my ass.

So why do I want to take every tablet of Ritalin I own right now?