"I hope you meet someone who wants to experience you and not just see you by their eyes. Someone who doesn’t only want to have sex with you but moves their fingers over your body like trying to find a city on a world map and mark their favourite destinations. Someone who wants to experience you like a masterpiece. whenever we observe a masterpiece we get the urge to touch it and most of the time we do, involuntarily, because it’s so perfect that we not only want to see it with our eyes and forget it’s details later on because I read somewhere that every time you recall a memory your brain edits it bit by bit so we long to experience it so that each part which contributes to it’s perfection stays with us afterall how scary it would be to forget how perfect you felt. So I hope someone experiences you like a summer breeze stroking your hair, like the warmth of bonfire on a chilly winter night, like the taste of that traditional homemade dish by a mother for her children who’s taste forever lingers in their mouth. I hope you find someone who justifies in treating you like the perfect art you are."
Okay no. Fucking no. You think your sandwich is cute with peanut butter and jelly hearts, fucker? Well you’ll change your mind once you put it together and try to eat it. First you’ll get a mouthful of just bread and disappointment, then when you take another bite your mouth will be assaulted by copious the amounts of sticky peanut butter and sugary jelly and there won’t be enough bread to save you from it. A sandwich like that is what failure tastes like. The pb and j may be shaped like hearts but there’s no love in that sandwich. It’s about balance. Life needs balance, and so does your fucking sandwich. You disgust me. Don’t talk to me until you know how to make a proper sandwich.