I’m A Mess, and I Don’t Make It Look Good.

I’m a mess.

I lose my train of thought a lot.

I always have a song stuck in my head and probably half the time it’s a dirty song.

I sleep until five minutes before I have to leave every day.

I am terrible at parking.

My nails have never been long enough to pass my finger tips because I pick at them when I’m nervous.

It’s good that I don’t drink, because when I’m sad, I probably go through my body weight in Pepsi.

The first draft of my book was almost entirely cuss words.

I send texts without thinking about them.

I’m always ready to fight someone, even if I shouldn’t. Especially if I shouldn’t.

I know I shouldn’t be sleeping this much but I do anyway. I wanna sleep thinking about how I shouldn’t be sleeping this much.

I cut all my hair off because someone told me I couldn’t pick up heavy objects. I don’t even really understand the correlation but that’s what happened.

I insist on using the Oxford comma.

I impulsively buy movies and regret it three days later, but I always buy more.

I’ve seen more horror movies than genuinely happy people in my life.

I had to transfer schools because I was ready to physically fight my English teacher, and I hated my next school, but I’d still fight that English teacher.

I believe in the stupidest things.

I tell everyone what I’m feeling.

I’m an open book with ink and tears and blood and chocolate smeared all over the pages.

I’m a mess.

I’m the book on the bottom shelf at the library that hasn’t ever been checked out but looks like its been through its fair share of poor owners.

I’m a mess.

I overshare.

I think I’m funny.

I talk to my stuffed animals.

I think I’m tough.

I’m a mess, and I know it.

How am I supposed to believe you when you say you want to be with me?