Death to the ladies first, then the gentlemen.
Last night, somewhere between my first beer and Casey coughing up blood all over me and Sam, something hit me.
I don't know what, exactly.
I just know that I felt.. hit, like something was staring me in the face and I couldn't single it out.

Every time Adam would make a smart remark, or funny quip, I'd laugh hysterically and lighten up like your typical girl-at-the-party-giving-hair-cuts-to-the-drunks.

And I look around at some of my oldest friends, drinking and laughing and singing around me, and console myself that whatever is trying to get my attention, it will never slip past these people.
My protection; my shields, my bodyguards, my dreamcatchers.

Because, no matter what, they have always been there.
Forget these so-called "besties" that pose for glorified photobooth snapshots.
Forget these amateurs that don't know what "anything" really means, but swear they'd give it readily for me.
I'm tired of them
and their needs
and their secrets
and their voicemails
and their take take take take lifestyles.

I have realized that I have given so much to so many people, who never offer anything in return.
No compassion, or concern, or regard for who I am.
You just want me to give you a ride,
or you need a hair cut, or colour,
someone to ride shotgun for you,
or someone to vent to,
someone to run to the store for you because you can't drive,
or you don't have a car,
because you don't have a job,
but you know you have me.
And that's enough for you.

It's a method called, "You get what you give."
My advice to you would be: expect nothing.
Exactly what you gave.
Exactly what you're made of.

There's a reason I don't answer your calls.