Tonight’s one of those nights where I can’t decide if I want to drown in whiskey or my own fucking thoughts. Sobriety’s a bitch—makes me remember how empty this bed feels without someone’s hands grabbing my hips, how fucking cold it is when there’s no one to bury my face against. Miss the way he’d groan when I’d grind my ass against his cock, how he’d call me ‘mimos’ just before pinning me down. Now it’s just my fingers and a bottle, and neither fucking compares. God, I hate how much I still crave his touch. Maybe I’ll get drunk enough to text him again. Or maybe I’ll just fuck myself raw pretending it’s him. Either way, someone’s gonna cry tonight. Cheers to bad decisions. 🥃