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My timeline is so full of retweets, i'm not even sure who i follow anymore, and i think they may be the wrong people.
When you only have a thin line of whiskers under your bottom lip, it's no longer called a soul patch. It's called, forever alone.
Can't decide if I want to smell like, everlasting sunshine or milk and honey.
Life is hard.
The day I finally get to say, "hey, my eyes are up here" is the day I have a double header zit on my chin.
Your phone knows you're old when it changes the word what? to, eh?
My phone is an asshole.