Can’t sleep again. I wish it was because of the leg or the head or the tremours. That would be so much easier.
There isn’t… I can’t talk to anyone about him. No one who knew him, not Anya, not Francis, not Lottie. Not anyone. They all…they all hate him. They are glad he’s gone.
And they are right. Because he…
I. Hate myself. So deeply. For still missing him.
What the entire fuck is wrong with me.
What do you mean my dream woman can't be made of metal with cartoonishly pointy boobs
I'm gonna redraw this
I'm trans he/ itI drawAsk me about my mouthwashing headcanons or something idk(If you do be specific)current hyperfixations Mouthwashing, mold, dialtown
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