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matt,

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matt,

fuck you. every time i mentally decide to move on, i physically can't. i ran away and it's all my fault.

everything's falling apart, i haven't gotten a gig in weeks, there's no set of income besides pap's retirement money he barely worked up, and i feel so alone. it's one major story of heartbreak that i'll never fucking understand.

nobody hears me, nobody understands me, and nobody will fucking talk to me.

i spend my days in my room, writing these dumb letters or sitting by pap's bedside or watching the same show we'd use to watch together. over, and over, and over again.

pap's sicker than ever, and i don't know if he'll pull through. pray for me?

best,
etta

šŸšŸ, įµ Ė¢įµ—įµ˜Ź³āæā±įµ’Ė”įµ’ ( āœ“ )Where stories live. Discover now