It is the feeling that no one loves me.
Not even my mom or my cat really understand the pain of Teenaged Angst.
No one understands me.
No one loves me.
My family claims that they do, but we all know they're lying.
God, I hate them so much; the fakes.
The only people who love me, The only ones who understand or care
All live in my iPod...
Valentines Day. People are supposed to be happy, right?
Not since she left me.
I guess she found someone more screwed up than I am,
or perhaps he's just more Scene than I, or maybe it's his hair.
It was the best three days of my life, though, with her.
She was so much better than the girl last week. I let her draw Xs and Cut Lines on my wrists in sharpie.
They're still there, mocking me, reflecting the darkness in my soul.
They are tempting me.
Modusoperandi hunts down random, unfunny shit which he replaces with less-random, quasi-funnyshit. Occasionally he gets up off his ass (or more correctly, sits down on it) and makes a page of his own, to which no one ever goes.
Recently he's been making pictures that people don't like and, having discovered UnNews, has been making fake news stories (rather than the fake regular stories that he normally makes).
The Bard (baptised 26 April 1564 – died 23 April 1616) was an English poet and playwright widely regarded as the greatest writer of the English language, and the world's preeminent dramatist. He wrote approximately 38 plays and 154 sonnets, as well as a variety of other poems. Already a popular writer in his own lifetime, the Bard became increasingly celebrated after his death and his work adulated by numerous prominent cultural figures through the centuries.