Happy birthday to me.

Nomad.

According to Bukowski, starting thursday I've got only one more year.

And like the cat I have nine times to die.
This is Number Three. --Sylvia Plath

Sometimes I hate the fact that he isn't you.
And I hate when boys feel the need to lie to impress a girl.
He doesn't do that. But still.
He treats me like I always wanted you to treat me.
Oh well. Miss you. Both.

There's nothing I hate more than dishonesty.

Lost; that's all I am right now.