I cling onto words. I construct sentences that perfectly trace the contours of one word, one pretty word. I give it a suit because it is already holding flowers. My feelings are the stilts to which these pretty words walk on, when it is these pretty words that should be stepped on, pounded to the dirt till nothing will blossom, till it is reduced to an unparalleled savergy. Salvage a petal. Salvage it, try but you can't.

I think maybe if i weren't so fustrated all the time and maybe if my mum wasn't so frustrated all the time, i wouldn't be frustrated all the time.
I'm not perfect. Can perfection be defined? It's a useless word. We say things are perfect when they aren't. Are we liars?
What is a liar.
I have lied.

Funny how i trust my brain sometimes. I didn't want to throw the straw away but logic got in the way and said that there are plenty of straws left. So i threw it away. But logic cannot grapple with time. Before there were plenty of straws, but the thing is- that was before. And now is when i'm angry at my brain.
Straws are nice, but not when they are miscible with trash and you really want one.