Spontaneous saline combustion

Can't find the fucking ice cream scoop with all these tears in my eyes.
The amaretto & cream wore off so now, to drown my worries and maybe-sorrows in Neapolitan ice cream.
I don't even want ice cream, I want my boyfriend.
You know, the boyfriend I'm gonna be with forever, the boyfriend who jokes with me about making babies, the boyfriend who makes up the only other body and soul I share my life and bed with and would ever want to.
It's the worst part all over again, when I really (naively) thought we were safe. When I think about it, it's not that I just want to hear the news, because there's a good chance it'll be bad, and that's the part I'm worrying about. But the worrying hurts like a bitch because I don't know whether to chill the fuck out because everything's gonna be okay, or to start preparing myself for what is going to feel like a cliff dive.

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