don't make me get a real job – being a brunette with light eyes is already quite the achievement.

born to be a sleeping beauty
forced to be a fucking mess

I love women, especially those who fit the description "everybody support women until a woman's doing better than you, everybody wants you to love yourself until you actually do.."

when the headache is so unbearable that you have to hit this pose:

yes, baby, you're very sofia coppola, cannibalism as a metaphor for love, pomegranate, apostle, sappho, sacrifice lamb, fig, angel of small death and the codeine scene, laura palmer, southern gothic, ptolemaea, please, go to sleep.

honestly, I don't get why girlbloggers are so against men in our women's spaces. weren't we supposed to have someone to sacrifice under the full moon, whose blood we'd sip from antique goblets? no? did I misread the vibe?

"if men didn't exist, I'd dress like a slut!" no, honey — if men didn't exist, the concept of a slut wouldn't exist either.

kiss here? maybe I'll kill you later but still

I'm not "not like other girls".
I'm exactly like them.

I cry over fictional characters and lipstick shades that were discontinued in 2016. I have a playlist for every mood. I spend more time on pinterest than on any other social network. I drink coke more often than water. I buy every shiny trinket I see. I watch the same films over and over again. and I'm fucking happy.

maybe I am not the smartest or the prettiest girl in the room but none of them is as anxious as I am.

there's something incredibly intimate about letting someone braid your hair, zip up your dress, fasten the clasp of your necklace, run their fingers over yours, or share one earphone.