I'm Dexter, and... I'm not sure of what I am. I just know there is something dark in me. And I hide it. I certainly don't talk about it. It's there, always. This dark passenger. And when he's driving, I feel... Alive. Half sick with the thrill, the complete wrongness. I don't fight him. I don't want to. He's all I've got. Nothing else could love me. Not even... especially not me. Or is that just a lie, the dark passenger tells me? Because ...
(via 87daysbefore)
If we’re friends, there’s a 106% chance that I’m always petrified that you secretly hate me.
(Source: escapistaz, via native-badass)