Don't ever piss off a gal who carries a gun 100% of the time when you only carry 25%. And don't ever come before she does.

I remember everything about you. Your eyes, your hair, your smell, even your gait, but I can't remember your voice. It's gone. God, I miss you.

Our last song. I can see the empty bar, bartender getting ready, DJ warming up, and we were off for the last time. I don't remember the destination, I remember the song...

Damn punk, I don't have many feelings left, aside from pity. Even that's like reading a boring book. Maybe I'm just burnt out. Maybe I just don't care. I cry every morning when I look at the newsfeed, but it's like I'm standing on the outside. I don't get mad, I don't get happy. About the only thing I care about is an 11 y/o girl and keeping her dad from killing school board members that try to turn her into a boy. Even that doesn't matter much.

I guess I'll just keep shoveling money into the fire. I ain't gonna take it with me. I sent her nana a dozen chocolate covered strawberries in the squirt's name for her nana's birthday. It didn't take nana long to figure out that an 11 y/o can't afford $7/ea for candy.

What the fuck ever. Just keep moving through the moves.