in summation, my dear friends, painting a self-portrait for myself: i am the sensible, direct, blunt, serious, sarcastic, real, lonely, observant, eccentric, protagonist of this story, and i am about to call it quits on wearing my heart on my sleeve. instead, i'm making cockrings out of my emotions, and promotional t-shirts for the campaign of getting you beneath my skin.

as much as you can say you don't give a fuck about 'feelin' the love,' you know you that inherently you absolutely do, and it's the one thing you want very badly in this world. no matter how far away you run, no matter how hard you beat its skull with a louieville slugger, it'll always be there, following you like a red balloon tied to a toddler's wrist. balloons are more fun when you hold them with your hand, of your own freewill, and if you truly love that red balloon, you won't let it go until the sky is beautiful enough for it to be set free upon.