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Dear Heart (and I mean this in the literal sense, not the metaphorical one):

The fuck do you think you're doing? 100+ bpm, resting? Shaking hands? Headache? Sharp pain in my left side?

Intermittent pain down my left arm?

Seriously, what. the. fuck.

If I pass out in design, you're getting evicted. I don't have time for your bullshit.

And I'm bringing the heartstoppers with me, alright? I don't take them unless I have to, but you're not supposed to do this.

No love,
me

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