The ages of 12-15 are pretty horrible years. You’re hitting puberty, (unless you were one of the “early developers” that got boobs in 4th grade), probably have braces, shitty hair and skin, horrible clothes, and hate everything in the world. I am no exception to the above. I think I have 3 pictures that are solid documentary evidence that I did, in fact, exist. Here’s one. I think I’m about 12:
Time to (again) say goodbye to you, old friend, Marlboro. We broke up in 2005, but I let you back in. I was weak. You promised it would be different this time. I was wrong.
We have had some good and bad times over the years. But I’ve come to realize you’re just no good for me. You can simultaneously make me feel happy, content. But then you started to get a little too possessive. I tried to get away but couldn’t. You’re my Bobby Tennison. I can’t have it anymore. Enough is enough.