In every shot I take, I think of you,
asking myself, “Is this the right thing to do?”;
In every time I get wasted,
I’m thinking of all the time I’ve waited.
I’m not tipsy, I’m not drunk;
all the night I kept whispering “Fuck”;
It’s not the vodka nor the beer,
it’s just my heart that sunk
and my eyes full of tears.
—  A happy thursday journal, (l.m)