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We like the same things and I like your style
It's not a secret
Why do you keep it?
I'm just sitting in the shelf.


It's my favorite kind of morning. The sun is peeking out for once, but only to enjoy its act of deceiving. Its rays trickle down, but not quite far enough to stop the slap of the cold blue morning from seeping into your clothes, your skin, your bones. The crisp air comes at you in a wave, making you gasp as you sharply inhale; a wave of ice, with a surprisingly refreshing aftertaste.
I'm pulled from the chill of the early day to a world of rebellions, junkies, float-alongs, a mish-mosh of pseduo-youth (and maybe a tad older) trying to find their way in life, and gnawing at my nerves every moment along the way.
I'm sick of the potheads and drinkers, bragging about how they got so smashed they puked on themselves then passed out.
I'm sick of the rebels who think they're so hardcore.
I'm sick of the whiners who think life is so bad for them.
I'm sick of the skanks who make women look bad.
I'm sick of the jackasses who think that's okay.
I'm so sick of this school I just want to scream, because I can't get out just yet, and there's really a quite decent chance that my freedom is being pushed back even farther because of my own stupid inability to make myself care about the boring, irrelevant classes I've put myself into.

But who's to say it'll be better anywhere else. Maybe I'm just PMSing. Maybe it's just one of those days where every damn thing gets under your skin.

But I hate this place, yo.

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