January and February always beat me down the hardest.
But they don't call it March Madness for nothing.
Oh, and April can kiss my fucking ass.
Say hello to me completely losing it and losing touch with any remnant relationship that slowly seem to be crawling away regardless of my neurotic behavior.
I wrote two pages on my thoughts of you and realized, to you, the blue curtains were nothing but blue curtains. Because this is not a Salinger novel where a red hunting hat holds any significance.
Fuck you for never caring
and fuck me for always believing in the best of people.
Just fuck it.
