when Don’t Stop Believing comes on and you sing along to every damn word and you pretend like, oh ya it’s bc I’m a total hipster and I listen to classic rock, when really you are just discarded glee garbage
mentally? i’m in a 1920s jazz club with pearls around my neck and a feather in my hair, dressed as a flapper girl with a glass of champagne in my hand talking to one of my many lovers about my various adventures
everyone around me: *dating* *getting engaged* *getting married* *having kids* *figuring out their careers* *generally having their lives put together*
i can’t like.. casually read. either i read 7,000 pages in a span of two days without food or sleep and forget to fucking breathe or i don’t ready anything, not even road signs for six months
having fangs may not be a ‘‘‘necessary’’’ or ‘‘‘wise’’’ addition to my physiology but it would be very, very sexy and therefore i think i deserve them regardless,