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So, what do I have to do to get fingered in the back row of the cinema and be forced to keep my whimpers and moans at bay so that no one hears me as you whisper to me me all the things you’re gonna do to me when we get home?
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“Your presence will be sun in winter,”
— Alfred Lord Tennyson, from “To The Rev. F. D. Maurice,” published c. 1855
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original art, photography, and writing by @adirabennett
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it doesn’t matter how good you’re doing, those sad nights will creep up on you from time to time and that’s ok. doesn’t mean all your progress is gone
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what i say: im sensitive
what i mean: my mental illness throws everything out of proportion and my emotions are extremely unpredictable and even the slightest thing going wrong literally makes me want to die
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