When F. Scott Fitzgerald was 6 years old he had a birthday party to which nobody came. He waited on the porch all afternoon in his freshly pressed suit but nobody showed, so at last he went inside and ate his entire birthday cake, including several candles.
Right now I feel like a possum that’s been forced to wear a tie. A strange feeling this is. Anyway, listening to R sing Backstreet Boys songs in a country accent is making my day just a little brighter.
man my computer is like fucked so i haven’t been posting anything. it won’t let me log into my computer and it says “windows is configuring computer. don’t turn off your computer” and yeah it stays like that forever and never lets me log in so! yeah
imagine making out with alex turner
but like imagine
I’m here shamelessly appreciating my idiocy when it comes to the views of DuBois and Booker T. Washington because I’m too busy looking at pictures of Michael Cera with a mustache. God created this human being in such a way that has made me go insane. Why though? What did I do to deserve this monstrosity of a misery? Hmph.
