silver-coned breasts
The growing significance of teenage relationships are if anything, a nuisance. After being forged into what seems to be a binding contract despite labels of a "puppy love", we all eventually realise the 6-feet-deep hole we dug ourselves into.
I spoke to a girlfriend the other day, and we both depressingly discussed about our Mr Right Nows, both of whom were cleverly disguised as Mr Rights. This certain girlfriend has countlessly adviced me to get out, and I her, but the funny thing is that we're both just full of talk, and neither of us can.
We've been through so much together. He's just going through a hard time right now. What if I can't find someone who treats me better? He's my first. He's the one. There are just so many excuses of which we try to bury our lack of pride in.
How the hell did this happen?
When the first serious relationship I had left me in tatters, I became a more exaggerated form of a commitment phobe - for this state had come from a lesson (or mistake). Fast forward the 2 years of strategically planned easily detachable flings, came Anthony.
I swear if and once I get myself unravelled out of this mess, I shall baricade myself within a titanium defense mechanism; an improved version of the first, and I shall live to my full potential without any linkage whatsoever to men who prove no use other than to weigh you down. But then again, the key word used here is "if", for I never was good at untying knots.
On a lighter and a very random, insignificant note, I have recently come up with the plot of all plots for a text (note to Dr. Yeoh Seng Guan: education not wasted). Let's just say it involves a suffragette-come-vigilante in diguise of an escort ala Sydney Bristow to dispose the raging hormones of male Mat Salleh tourists in urban Thailand.
I spoke to a girlfriend the other day, and we both depressingly discussed about our Mr Right Nows, both of whom were cleverly disguised as Mr Rights. This certain girlfriend has countlessly adviced me to get out, and I her, but the funny thing is that we're both just full of talk, and neither of us can.
We've been through so much together. He's just going through a hard time right now. What if I can't find someone who treats me better? He's my first. He's the one. There are just so many excuses of which we try to bury our lack of pride in.
How the hell did this happen?
When the first serious relationship I had left me in tatters, I became a more exaggerated form of a commitment phobe - for this state had come from a lesson (or mistake). Fast forward the 2 years of strategically planned easily detachable flings, came Anthony.
I swear if and once I get myself unravelled out of this mess, I shall baricade myself within a titanium defense mechanism; an improved version of the first, and I shall live to my full potential without any linkage whatsoever to men who prove no use other than to weigh you down. But then again, the key word used here is "if", for I never was good at untying knots.
On a lighter and a very random, insignificant note, I have recently come up with the plot of all plots for a text (note to Dr. Yeoh Seng Guan: education not wasted). Let's just say it involves a suffragette-come-vigilante in diguise of an escort ala Sydney Bristow to dispose the raging hormones of male Mat Salleh tourists in urban Thailand.
posted by nutballeegoofster at 01:42
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