Some pages of the diary are better left in the washpaper basket. They contain memories of wonderful times with people you missed for the rest of your life. And you continue to miss these times until your love for them turns to jealousy and hatred. And ultimately, you are angry with them, because they are those who form those memories you truly treasure and you hate them because you want them to never have been in your life ever so that you could be spare the pain of reminiscence.
Fuck you all.
lip
ranting
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