I want a boy who's so drunk he doesn't talk

hello. my name is sarah. i'm 19. i live in illinois. we are the soy bean state so that should tell you just how amazing it is to live here. i'm a Christian. i'm also a huge slacker. all i do is go to school then i come home and take up space. i come from a huge family. 3 brothers and 2 sisters. i'm the second child. interresting, eh? i also have the greatest boyfriend in the world. michael, my dear douche bag, i love you! so... this is my page. it sucks ass. i apologize for that. even though i guess i really don't owe any of you an apology. i'm a pretty boring person. so my site will more than likely be pretty boring too. try to enjoy yourself.

i'm an imperfect girl

Bright Eyes*The Calender Hung Itself  Does he kiss your eyelids in the morning when you start to raise your head? And does he sing to you, incessantly, from the space between your bed and wall? Does he walk around all day at school, with his feet inside your shoes? Looking down every few steps to pretend he walks with you? Oh, Does he know that place below your neck that's your favorite to be touched? And does he cry through broken sentences like, "I love you far too much"?  Does he lay awake listening to your breath? Worried you smoke too many cigarettes? Is he coughing now? On a bathroom floor? For every speck of tile There's a thousand more You won’t ever see But most hold inside yourself Eternally  Well, I drug your ghost across the country And we plotted out my death In every city, memories would whisper, "Here is where you rest."  I was determined in Chicago But I dug my teeth into my knees And I settled for a telephone Sang into your machine, "You are my sunshine, My only sunshine. You are my sunshine, My only sunshine."  And I kissed a girl with a broken jaw That her father gave to her She had eyes bright enough to burn me there; They reminded me of yours And in a story told, she was a little girl in a red-rouge, sun-bruised field And there were rows of ripe tomatoes, where a secret was concealed And it rose like thunder Clapped under our hands And it stretched for centuries To a diary entry’s end Where I wrote, "You make me happy, Oh, when skies are gray. You make me happy Oh, when skies are gray, and gray, and gray."  Well the clock’s heart it hangs inside its open chest With its hands stretched towards the calendar hanging itself But I will not weep For those dying days For all the ones who've left There's a few that stayed And they found me here And pulled me from the grass Where I was laid I'll Dig Myself A Little Hole Inside Your Prescious Heart

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