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I can't even look at them. I feel sick.

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Oh, I'm almost out of your cologne. I'm going to say I won't buy more, but I already mentioned it, and the 2-pack is already in the Amazon cart. And I can say well, I didn't ask them to buy it. I don't use Amazon. But the pained words *I'm almost out of my cologne* came out, and something tells me in 2 weeks I'll be handed the heaviest 5 ounces I'll ever hold and be asked for $15. Because it's *my cologne* to them. They love it. The one thing about me they like, and it's you.

If they bury me, they'll spray it before they close the coffin. My bones will smell like safety forever.

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By the way, I started smoking.

Y'know, the thing we fought about. The thing I hated more than anything, the damn near deal breaker, the one thing you did that actually made me mad. The thing that triggers me horribly.

It does. But so does the cat I saw walking home. So do my stuffed animals and Wednesdays and long days at work coming home to... Nothing.

Coffee and flowers and music and everything I once loved.

It was all because of you. You filled my life with so much love.

Right now it hurts. Eventually I'll learn how to appreciate it, how to continue to love it, how to be grateful while also being sad. Eventually I won't have an anxiety attack waking up and a panic attack in the middle of the week. It hurts a lot right now.

I don't drink. The thing I did that you hate. I smoke. I picked up a pack and let it choke me. Funny, it felt the same as missing you.

And then the dissociating came. And the warmth. The shaking stopped for a bit. For 5 minutes the survival has a solution and these circular scars on my arms aren't too bad either.

So yeah. I started smoking.

Also, there's a cat at the corner house on my way home.

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I'm trying to be brave

But I cant stop thinking,

Who will place coffee beans

On my grave?

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bucky?

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It's one of those nights I really need a fucking distraction but I can't get one. The only distraction that worked is gone. I can't go back. And I think I'm starting to spiral into a panic attack and I can't do shit to calm down. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

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$200

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It's been 500 days. Fuck.

I went to scream LIAR. But that's not fair. He never lied. He lost feelings. And it was my fault. I can't be mad. I'm not mad. Hurt, yeah. Confused. Lost. Mad at myself. Not him.

I just can't believe it's been 500 days now.

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By the way, every single one of my relationships have been with bisexual people and everyone single one of them left me and got with people of the opposite gender afterwards.

I'm a bit sore.

I'm now Biphobic (afraid of bisexuals)

(but still 1000000% supporting all bi/pan/poly people. They're valid and I love them.)

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No I'm not okay. This is a Biso. and I can't show him. And I'm not fucking okay. Also everything else in my life fucking sucks. But more importantly, I can't show the guy I thought was my one and only this fucking bisopod.

I just think he'd like it.

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Thinking about starting a Ko-Fi then bombarded with a constant reminder that I'm not good at anything and no one gives a damn about what I do. I'll never get tips and asking for handouts is fucking stupid when you have nothing to offer.

And then I feel really fucking shitty. I don't know why I do this. Why I do anything.

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I'm late. Too late. But it's something. I don't care that I'm alone now. I made a fucking promise. Even if just to myself.

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I hate being sad. I want to jerk off.

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I'm a dog pawing at the door. It's so cold out here. There's snow in the yard and it's so, so cold. It's so dark and I'm alone and I'm sorry, I promise I'll be good. I'm sorry I bit. I was scared. Im laying against the door huddling against the cold dreaming of the warmth inside to keep me sane. If I walk into the yard I will surely die. I am safe by the door, right? I won't paw anymore. I won't beg to come inside. I'll be good.

There's no one inside. They left me here in the dark and the cold because I was bad. But the door makes me feel safe. I will not Paw at the door. I will not beg to come inside. I will not admit to myself that the door is cold now.

I'll stay here. If I die here, maybe my fur will warm their feet when they come back.

They'll come back.

It's so dark. So cold.

I'll be good. They'll come back.

My fur is growing cold.

No, no please, what if they come back? They'll want something warm.

I want to be good. I want to be good. I want to be good. I want to be good.

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I've been drooling over Daryl from the walking dead for a week now and I just realized this long hair blue eyed mother fucker is The Winter Soldier Character and goddamnit I have a type

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Made this blog while going through a dragged out Hypersexual episode and now I'm on the asexual downswing. Nothing to fucking post.

I'm sure I'll think of something in a few days.