Got the itch? – Jared
I stitched an itch to my side. As far as surgeries go, I’m just barely scratching the surface.
Blood is like water, to a vampire. And coffee is like blood, to a tired mosquito. And my love is like an itch—and a scratch.
A tickle, an itch, and a scratch walk into a bar while I was in the corner drinking a thermos full of epidermis, and I thought, this must be what love feels like.
What men classify as living is often but the discontentment of making oneself itch just to enjoy the scratch.
My skin hasn’t been sleeping. It stays awake just itching for a fight.
Poison Ivy tastes like an itch when you have it on your tongue, and I’d say that love tastes the same, only itchier.
I’m itching for battle—with a mosquito bite. The only thing in life I’ll scratch at more is the need to be loved. I’m so bloody needy.
I enjoy scratching itches on my body with my beard stubble. The worst though is when my lower back itches.
I’d eat a mosquito to satisfy my hunger for an itch.
Happiness is having a scratch for every itch.
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