I hate smug Doctor Who fans who say I shouldn’t bother watching if I dont start with the 1st Doctor.
Excuse the fuck out of me, but if you haven’t noticed there are about 800 episodes. I would love to spend all my time to watching ~800 episodes and become a megafan, but that means cutting out time to watch other shows, movies, and put down all the books I’m reading. It would take forever before I catch up with everyone in the fandom. And by the time I do there would be another Doctor Who, probably younger and more handsome than the last. You enjoy your infinite Doctor Who knowledge while I start from Nine like nearly everyone else.
I’ve reached the point where I have to masturbate to go to sleep. And even that doesn’t help. Fucking insomnia.
I don’t know what feels better: Sex or being an insomniac and finally getting some rest after over a month of sleepless nights and waking up even more tired.
Sometimes I feel like going to church on Sundays because there is nothing to do in the morning and I need to kill a few hours.
In Hell all the paintings are always slightly tilted and you can never straighten it.
In Hell you can have all your favorite foods, but you’re too sick to taste it.
In Hell you walk in puddles with socks on.
In Hell you have to put skinny jeans on with wet legs.
My sex life is like eating at a restaurant. I like everything but nothing agrees with me.
When I was a freshman in high school I hated my appearance. I had acne. I wore glasses. I had messy, curly hair that couldn’t be tamed. I didn’t have makeup and pretty jewelry like all the other girls. I looked sick from the anorexia. Like, pale in the wrong way. I didn’t go shopping every week like other girls, so I was stuck being a medium wearing XL clothes that hung off me. I was awkward around people because I had only had maybe three friends before high school, but even then I only saw them during school. I was emo. The only one in the school. I thought a school for artists would be more accepting, but it was really hard for me. I sat alone alot. No one ever came up to me for conversation. I always had to start them. Because of me sitting on a guy’s lap rumors spread about me being a slut even though I was a virgin. Never even saw a penis except on pop-ups online. I hated myself.
Then one day during breakfast I was sitting alone and my history teacher came up to me. He told me I was beautiful. He said I had deep eyes and beautiful high cheek bones. He said I had gorgeous lips other girls would kill for and that I needed to see that. I thought he was just being a creeper. So I shrugged it off. And it wasn’t until now, 5 in the morning almost 6 years later that I realize no one ever complimented me like that (or at all) until he did. I went 15 years before someone didn’t call me fat, or ugly, or flat chested, or raggedy, or all those other hurtful things.
And he was right. I do have deep eyes. They hold so much emotion. People tell me they’re drawn to my eyes. I do have high cheek bones. I got offered a modeling position because of my cheeks and those full lips he complimented me on. I got really good at makeup. I was able to afford new clothes (some from stealing, my hoarding grandmother and hand-me-downs). I have alot more friends and some social skills. My acne is more under control. My glasses suit me. I gained some weight back so I have some damn hips and thighs. I keep my hair tamed. I was accepted by alot of people for my looks. And I had sex. Lots of it. Lots.
Still…all those years took a toll on me. I can say all those things but I don’t feel like I look good enough. Maybe to them, but not to myself. Just need a few more pounds off my body, no more fucking acne, and some more piercings. I’m thinking tongue, nose, and nape.
What happened on Supernatural and why is everyone on my dash crying?
Me: Im gonna have so much fun this weekend!
Me: *masturbates 4 times in a row and passes out*
Had one of the most horribly vivid nightmares last night and no matter what I do I still see it every time I close my eyes.