My Body Isnt A Temple, Its A Condemned Building Covered In Prophecies In The Form Of Graffiti. My Soul

my body isnt a temple, it’s a condemned building covered in prophecies in the form of graffiti. my soul is a shrine made of garbage and neon and i am holy, hallelujah.

i have to be funny because being hot is not an option

me: *about to send someone a message*

myself: hey

me: ? hey what's

myself: if they wanted to have any kind of contact w/ you they would have initiated it.

me: alright, neat, neat concept, but communication is actually a two-way street so

myself: they have no desire to speak to you and never have any desire to speak to you, ever. they never think of you. they will never think of you, at all, ever, even in passing. you are nothing.

me, tossing my phone out the window: alright! neat! awesome! fantastic!

“You should never bottle up your emotions,” I say, kicking seventeen Emotion Bottles™ under the carpet.

me, eating chicken strips and watching  a horror movie at 3:42 AM: nothing is real

me, with someone I have no interest in: lighthearted witty banter, often perceived by others as flirting.

me, with someone I’m interested in/actually trying to flirt with: