Im At The Point In My Essay Where I Dont Know If Im Spitting Bars Or Talking Out Of My Ass

im at the point in my essay where i dont know if im spitting bars or talking out of my ass

my friends: it's not safe to walk the streets at night

me: im the scariest thing on those streets at 3am

me out on my 3am walk: crocs covered in jibits, tie-dye t-shirt, jeans covered in doodles, mismatched socks and a shit-eating grin, pulling out my bedazzled lighter to light up my joint (that is pink) "oo look there's a shiny thing on the ground! oo look there's a new tag! OO MOSS!"

me: *eating a croffle and existing*

stinky old bald man smoking a cigarette across from me: i must stare intensely with my hand on my crotch as u eat that thanks

me: this is why i don't go out in the day time

I would rather burn in hell for an eternity than worship at the feet of your false "benevolent" god

sometimes ur 19(very inebriated) walking back from the clubs at 630am watching the sun rise with a cigg only to get home throw up, shower and get ready to do it all again the next night

thinking about the time i was 14 or 15 and in the psychiatrist's office and said something along the lines of, "no the government is definitely trying to hide something they keep telling us we have rights but we definitely don't it's a fascist state is what it is" and then he said "lets hook her up with some anti-psychotics" who's laughing now bitch