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He came back to us with stories of bedrooms filled with crumpled panties, of stuffed animals hugged to death by the passion of the girls, of a crucifix draped with a brassiere, of gauzy chambers of canopied beds, and of the effluvia of so many young girls becoming women together in the same cramped space.
I can't stand myself. I can't look in the mirror without wanting to cry. Everything that goes wrong is my fault. I can't be in love and happy because I have to go and fuck it up for some reason. I dont deserve love, or happiness. I deserve what im going through probably will be going through this for the rest of my life alone. I'm an awful fucking person who should just leave so everyone can be happy especially her.