Your death.


 I'd assume it would lack the glorious momentousness that you've always dreamed up. Just a little sputter then a sizzle leaving a wave or two of grey fumes like snuffing a candles between calloused fingertips. Neither early nor late, you'll pass just when no one will be willing to spare the empathy. But for all the grievances you live on, that fuel you, you'll play that black mariah when the time is right. Stained yellow teeth and crooked lips will whisper "there's that bitch of spades," before retiring above the cold side of pillows flattened by the gravity of their empty heads. Like you sleep, they sleep. The difference is, when you lay your head for the last time-- movements before you fall to slumber you'll ask yourself, "was it right?"

 btw... suicide notes are for bitches.


EAT A DIAAAAAAAAA...

catch me at the crib getting light to jeff mangum

what happens to a hipster when he gets old?

mami that's what doobies do

vanessa bayer's teeth and a lesbian walk into a bar

this explains everything

Mr. Horton touched a lot of kids.