Oh the celebratory actions of leaving....which includes whiskey, ofcourse.

Tonight I keep walking into my room. Laying on the bed. Staring at my belongings. Coach purse, over priced jackets that only warm me with compliments from randoms, a hair straightener, multiple pairs of high heels, and my lovely mirror. My bed that I'm selling. My door that I wish I could keep. The things I've come to depend on for my happiness. The things that never make me happy. What a fake.

I don't want to be anxious anymore.

And I'm tired of people I care about making me feel bad for leaving. Fuck you, Tim. Mom. Nick.

I'm doing what I want. Jeezfuckwhoredamncuntshitwhiskeyballs.