Ctrl + D

I am obsessed with this website. I check it daily. I commiserate, I laugh, I smirk knowingly, I feel glad that some of them aren't me. I feel like some of them are me, like they were thoughts taken straight out of my head. (One of them is. But you'll never guess which.) I wish that some of them were him. I pray to god some of them aren't.

I find myself writing little blurbs like this in my head, all the time. To him, to strangers, to pilots, to imaginary boys who date me, to boys I don't date. Sometimes they're not even true, I just like the way they sound. I could write my own entire book of these things by now, and the site hasn't even been around that long.

Perhaps this obsession is not quite a healthy thing. But I can't stop. I can't look away. I can't not click on that bookmark. At least it's healthier than booze, eh?


That's all. I just wanted to spread the love. The Dear Old Love.