(Source: numbscum)

(Source: lalalana13, via whiskeycigarettesouterspace)

(Source: er-c, via whiskeycigarettesouterspace)

(Source: adult-mag)

there is simultaneously something wrong with me and nothing wrong with me. i held these three pills in my hands for a few minutes before popping them in my mouth and chasing them down with a beer you handed me. remember that time we bought a cheap jug of wine and finished it off, lighting cigarettes and putting them out on the insides of our wrists. i picked at those scabs so often “i can’t feel anything, i can’t feel anything, i can’t feel anything”. i am somehow content (has the klonopin kicked in already?). maybe because i’m not really here. my body isn’t proof that i exist. my ability to feel something, anything. that’s proof. self destruction as a form of art. suicide as a sort of present, or whatever it was that david foster wallace once said to me in a dream.

maybe i dreamt it,

but the mouth shaped bruises on my shoulders tell me it was real.

 

 

(Source: gutaigroup, via whiskeycigarettesouterspace)

(Source: tears-and-lullabies, via whiskeycigarettesouterspace)

(Source: euo, via whiskeycigarettesouterspace)

hey, you fucking assholes, this is my face. stop changing the source. i refuse to promote your shitty soft grunge blogs.

hey, you fucking assholes, this is my face. stop changing the source. i refuse to promote your shitty soft grunge blogs.

(Source: racheljenkins, via numbscum)

(Source: gnoth, via monochrombissquits)

(Source: i-see-things-8, via pale-0rgasm)

hypothetically speaking, if i had just desperately (& somewhat dramatically) sifted through the ashtray lying on my nightstand so as to salvage for the butts of any cigarettes that had a puff or two left… would i be considered pathetic? no? ok, good.