Butterflies in my stomach? Is that supposed to be... romantic? I imagine butterflies in my stomach, wings wet with my acidic bile flapping hopelessly trying to make their escape up my throat and out through my mouth, their wormy body scraping along my pharynx striving for their lives.

Romantic as hell.

But I would still say that the metaphor does hold some truth. Love makes me want to throw up. Love makes me dizzy and confused. Love makes me hate myself. Love makes me feel like I'm disgusting. Love makes me feel like I'm never enough for anything, like, ever. Love is like butterflies in the stomach but I'm not the person with butterflies in their stomach; I'm the butterfly: the wet, half-dead, hopeless, disgusting, trapped, burned, out of place, poor little insect trying to make its way out of hell with its broken, half-functioning wings.

Or maybe I'm just a salty, sore loser. If I was really a poor little butterfly in someone's stomach I don't think I would even try to make my way out. I probably would just dive deep in the hot, stinky liquid and bury myself there waiting to be slowly digested. I don't believe I could fly out of the stomach. I'm not needed here or anywhere anyway. Why would I try.

I've always wondered why they call it 'having a crush one someone.' I mean, why crush? Is it because people feel crushed when they like someone? At least I do. The process of love is so stupid and selfish. Why do I have to risk a good friendship for a chance of experiencing a reciprocated love. I wish I could just snap my fingers and everything is done, everyone is happy, nobody is awkward. This paragraph does not make any sense and there obviously is no correlation between the ideas at all.

Do you think I'll save it by saying that me translating my feelings into a messy chunk of words is a way of portraying how love makes no sense and I hate it?

This thing does not make sense and I hate it. I hate myself. Love sucks, dude.

Whatever.