Ever since I understood what it meant, I’ve always wanted to be in love.
 I yearn for a feeling of overwhelming joy simply from a thought of that one person that was meant for me. To receive warmth from but a smile and ecstasy from a kiss. To find that one perfect soul, and wonder how I survived all these years bereft of their presence, and without the joyous feeling of our love. To stare into someone’s eyes speechless, without a sound, without a care, without a worry, without fear, doubt or grievance, and to know that never without her could the world seem so pure and so perfect. 
I live only to find that one girl I’d risk the naked vulnerability of love, in hope to find sanctuary in her arms and beauty in her heart. 
If I had to travel across the world to find her I’d do it without hesitation. If it took me so long that my mind began to wilt, and my body falter, so be it; my ills would be healed simply from her touch. If I spend my entire life searching for love, only to find it at my very last moment on this Earth, it would still be my happiest moment of all, because I would have shared it with her. 
My one. 

 But then I think, fuck it. It’s almost December 21st. The world is about to end. Might as well just wank into a sock then watch The Office to see what all the fuss was about before my life is cut short by some half-assed calendar manufacturing. 
Fucking Mayan pricks.

Huf Plantlife Socks £12 by the way.

Article found on www.yourfriendshouse.com by Christian Eva.