I wish I had the guts to re blog everything of yours that makes me want to punch you directly in between your eyes. It doesn’t matter how many times you roll the sleeves to your tshirts. It doesn’t matter how many brown looking hipster boot shoes you own. It doesn’t matter how many watches you own (and wear). It doesn’t matter how big the triangle is on your wrist because you will always be a metaphor for a stupid fucking shape who searches for it’s right angle when it’s already inside of you. Who strayed first? You sucker punch her with your eyes so she will never be able to find out the answer to that. She will never be able to pick her jaw up off the floor now, get into that adolescent hipster from Philadelphia woo woo. You make me hate the city.