#103.
So it's been just under three days, seventy two hours. I have a habit of converting days into hours when it comes to how long I've been without someone. A habit I'd like to drop. Ahaas, anyway, three days. Where the hell have you been, HB? You know, would it really kill to maybe ring me up, after Sunday and tell me where you've been? Even a text would be fine.


If i had the courage to call you, I swear, I would. If i had the courage to show you that I care about you being MIA then I definitely would do so. I don't even know if you'll reply my text if I sent you one. I guess it's kind of stupid of me, to expect you to let me know your whereabouts when I'm not asking. After all, you're not psychic.


Well, if only you were, then.


They should make it compulsory for at least one of these for every Melbourne male toilet. I reckon the humour would decrease suicide rates.

Hello, this is Tien. This blog is the remains of the unconventional cliches and angsty phrases of my teenage years. (Plus a new one every now and then)
I ♥ Phoenix, (500) days of summer, double entendres, unmade beds, autumn, Chopin, syncopated melodies, G7 chords and things that make me feel.

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