Thinking at you.

I need you to grow up five years, heal ten years, and mature fifteen years. That should make you just about perfect according to my repair check off sheet, and then…you’d be completely different and I probably wouldn’t want to talk to you anymore.

Also,

we were supposed to start a band. It was your idea, and I thought it was a horrible idea, and then I instantly agreed, because I figured it would never get off the ground and people wouldn’t judge me for hanging out with you.

I need you to change. Because I’m selfish.

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