It’s so fucking sad that we’re so lonely that a cheap bottle of vodka has become our best friend— see it’s one thing to let go and have some fun, but it’s different when you’re miles deep in stress and you can’t taste the difference between the vodka and all the blood and your neighbors call the cops because the noise is so damn loud but really all you’re doing is calling her name, yelling it out hoping one of those times she’ll yell back— now tell me, when you said you wanted to feel something, darling, was this quite it?
I wrote this in the summer and nothing has changed (via vaind)