No. Not you Blue’s Clue’s Steve. But I’m not done with you yet (apparently). Seriously Karina, you just made me question half of my existence. Is this the twilight zone as fuck or what? Guys. Steve isn’t even dead? And then I went and actually looked this up and I’m baffled. Like how did I NOT do this before? I feel like a total idiot!Steve is ALIVE!!!
But back to you ACTUAL Steve, to whom this hate-letter was meant for…
If I had a penny for every single time I’ve whispered “what the FUCK” to myself by the end of any day-
I’d be rich. I’d be able to pay off my credit cards. I’d be able to half-ass-afford my own Starbucks addiction without willingly overdrawing my bank account-I don’t think you’ve been able to grasp the “realness” of my caffeine struggles guys.
If there were a way to capture a screenshot of what’s happening inside of my fucking head right now, I’m positive it would be immediately flagged as inappropriate content and banned by whoever those prick-people are who have actual jobs judging what gets banned from social media. It would look like a fucking battlefield-except there would be no bodies nor blood-only wounded thoughts: some shattered into millions of fragments, desperately dragging their amputated, decapitated bodies in every direction-never to make any sense; some held captive as prisoners in shackles by the enemy- Denial; some are innocent children-abandoned, confused, and seeking purpose; some are cowards-hiding from their own shadows…too terrified of what would happen to them if they stood up for themselves. A brutally poetic setting, I can assure you.
You know that one time when I was all like “Fuck you Universe and your lemons because I’m a boss and if I want apples then you best buh-lieve I’m getting some juicy apples bitch”?
Who even ARE you Elizabeth?!
Where’s my fucking coffee?!
Happy Monday Humans! Just feed me coffee and tell me I’m pretty!
It’s no secret. I’m shameless. I was brought into this world with one missing section of the brain: the one that helps process and filter words and emotions before they get sent to the vocal cords. Or the fingertips. It’s no longer a secret that I had a less-than-blissful childhood.