writing style: author from the 1800s with a severe love of commas whose sentences last half a page
I came out here, to this point, to this place, hoping against all hope and despite signs and portends suggesting otherwise that I might, somehow, find myself having a pleasant experience, and yet here I stand, alone against the world, feeling assaulted, attacked on all fronts, knowing not my enemy’s name nor his face nor whether our battle is done.
You know how in action movies the main guy is always like “Yeah I’ve got a contact here in Uzbekistan that owes me a favor” for no discernible reason but it occurred to me that like that’s basically what internet friends are like if I was in that situation I’d be like “Yeah don’t worry leave it to me. I’ve got a mutual in the Netherlands whose selfie I reblogged one time.”
thinkin about my two hundred different embarrassing and completely self-indulgent daydream universes that i’ve actually taken time out of my day to create content for and have never shared with anyone bc they’re that embarrassing but not being able to stop bc they’re one of the few things that bring me genuine joy
Date a boy who worships you. Date a boy with talent, intellect, and snark. Date a boy with an angel’s voice. Date a boy who knows more languages than you. Date a boy who can sing. Date a boy who can serenade you with music and roses. Date a boy who kisses the hem of your dress. Date a boy who’s tall, dark, and mysterious. Date a boy who can teach you. Date a boy who would kill and kill for you again. Date the phantom of the opera.
persephone's corner 