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“Asshole.” Both a noun and an unofficial adjective—such a versatile word. Just like cunt.
“Oh, Blaze,” he says mockingly. “I already know you burn so pretty. And if it isn’t by me, you’ll just do it to yourself. But your death is mine, Thief.”
“You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law—” I throw my head back and laugh. “Tell Kohen I’m not done yet.”
She’s going places; far just isn’t one of them.
He’s not attractive enough to be treating me like this.
I don’t fear death, only the idea that I might die without making a profoundly negative impact on someone’s life.
“You’ve got a lot of audacity for someone with a receding hairline.” “I didn’t ask for your bitchiness.” “It’s on the house.”
Legs? Spread. Back? Arched.
Charlie better get her eulogy ready; there aren’t many hills I’m willing to die on, but as of today, there is a mountain I’m willing to conquer—and I’m no hiker.
In drugs, I could find that solace. I’m less alone in the company of blankness or colorful sounds.
I don’t want to rise above. I don’t want to find peace in the ruin. I want enough blood to fill a bath so I can wash away the sins of my mother and father.
To all the Kyle’s in the world, I’m sure you don’t all punch walls and drink Monsters.

