Go die, Carla

I don’t know who the fuck Carla is. I don’t know a person named Carla. And if your name is Carla, I deeply apologize if you felt struck by this. I’m not saying this to you. Don’t go die. Everyone reading this, don’t die. Not until you’re OLD. Like really old, and ready for it. Is it okay now? No hard feelings, not you Carla, and not anyone else? Good, thank God. Like seriously, even now, before I post this, I have a guilty conscience.

This night, is so terrible. And I wish I could post a blog post from my brain, because I thought some stuff earlier, when I was looking at the white planks in my ceiling. But now, I don’t know what the fuck it was I was thinking. And hey, sorry kids, SORRY about the language. You shouldn’t use those kinds of words. Seriously it just shows a lack of vocabulary, or at least, that’s what I’ve been told.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuckity fuck fuck. Take this shit away. (Again, so sorry for the language! The backspacer don’t work, can’t take it away!)

You should be happy you didn’t hear my thoughts there. I wish I could hug it all better. Don’t cry. Or do. Cry all you like. Cry it all out. Let it go. It’s okay. I’m here for you. I have no tears. I don’t know where they’re at. Maybe my body’s only 40% water, and I have nothing left for tears.

Don’t go die, Carla. But me.

Hey, do you forgive me.


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