I’m afraid I’ll never finish college. I’m afraid I’ll finish college with student loans I can never pay back. I’m afraid I’ll get a degree and won’t be able to find a job in that field. I’m afraid I’ll get a degree, get the job I dreamed of, and hate it.
― A Mental Illness Happy Hour listener whose list of fears matches mine four for four. (via undeadlife)


the gay agenda

or as i call it

the homoschedule 

Anonymous: What's your major in college?



I woke up this morning with a pounding in my head and the taste of cigarettes on my tongue. The music I fell asleep to still played in the background and I listened as it sang through the chorus. I reached for you on the sheets next to me, but there was nothing there but cold cotton and memories long since buried in the hollowed out recesses of my splintered mind. 

I thought I had gotten passed the mornings where I would wake and expect to find you there, your hair pressed up at odd angles and eyes still sleepy. Yet here I lay, my hand outstretched on the empty side of the bed, grasping at a ghost. 

I walked through the apartment that we once shared, my mind still imagining you sitting in our living room, slouched down on our couch, your feet curled under you with a book you’ve read a hundred times in your hands. You sip tea as you sit there, curled in my memory, with a memoir in your hands and the light drifting past the curtains. 

It’s our memories that were left in dusty pages of borrowed books. We were in love with words; words that curled around our tongues and pressed passed wine stained lips.

It was in the pages of a borrowed memoir that I found bits of your soul, fragile pieces that had broken off and had been tucked away for safe keeping. It was within the rough edged pages of a memoir that I lost myself, completely content to stay tucked away with the small parts of you that were left behind.

But memoirs are no place for a person who has barely lived, and those words are not meant for a tongue that stumbles over their sound. There is no place for me between the sentences, no reason for your soul to seek mine. No way to stay on these pages like spilled ink soaked through to the binding.

But I can still imagine you sitting there, with your hair pressed up at odd angles, and your tea cooling on our coffee table.