-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈ ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִִֶֶָ🥀་༘࿐ ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִִֶֶָ🥀་༘࿐ ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִִֶֶָ🥀་༘࿐
I am writing this from the floor of Blake’s downstairs bathroom while the bass literally vibrates my skull and shakes the drywall. I have never felt more tragically perceived yet entirely invisible in my seventeen years on this earth. I am a certified Conehead, and tonight, my life is a literal, track-by-track remake of "Disaster" by Conan Gray.
I walked into Blake’s party looking absolutely flawless, wearing the perfect outfit, completely ready to finally confront my absolute Disaster muse (you know exactly who). I had the whole cinematic, slow-motion monologue prepared in my head. I was ready to walk up, look him in the eye, and finally spill my guts.
Instead? We made eye contact from across the kitchen island, my soul instantly left my body, and I lost all motor control. I tripped over Blake’s stupid living room rug and face-planted directly into a giant bowl of tortilla chips. Salsa everywhere. Absolute, irreversible social demise.
Conan sings "it's gonna be a disaster," but honestly? He completely underestimated the stakes. The suspense of just standing here is actually fatal. If I go back out there and confess my feelings now, it’s either a perfect coming-of-age movie ending or I have to legally change my name and flee the country. There is no in-between.
My heart is hyperventilating in perfect sync with the music pounding through the wall. Do I sneak out the window into the bushes, or go back out and risk total psychological destruction?
ִֶָ -ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈ 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִִֶֶָ🥀་༘࿐ ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִִֶֶָ🥀་༘࿐ ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִִֶֶָ🥀་༘࿐
✨Conan killed bonan✨ out
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AgejoAngel
Omg?? Risk it! If you really want your feelings known, I say go for it!