You Can Only Reblog This Today.

girl who needs to ask for reassurance would rather be stabbed than admit they have needs

squinting suspiciously at my hands because they are Hurting and theyre Not Supposed To Be Hurting

tumblr users love reading. you literally stopped for this post just because it has words in it

Antoine de Saint-Exupéry for me has the same kind of tender mysticism people associate with Vincent Van Gogh

One a writer that draws, and the other a painter that writes; both sharing the ideal of finding joy and love in the little things - joy tainted with melancholy, often, but joy nonetheless - and love. So much of it.

And both men gone too soon.

Vincent's paintings still have an impact on people, as do his letters. Antoine's writing still touches many, as do his doodles.

I can picture The Little Prince in The Wheat Fields

trying to get together my submission for a writing contest thing. process is going like this:

me: *frustratedly going through five multi-page google docs*

me: why i have written literally nothing in my lifetime

that one homoerotic girl friendship that ended horribly is always like, i hate her more than anyone, i will never stop loving her. she made me who i am, i hate the parts of me she helped create. i miss her more than anything, i can't even look her in the eye. i dream about her most nights, i'll cut off my arm before i even consider reaching out to her again. i want us back, i never want to feel that way again.

sent my partner the playlist i made and they go "this is just lesbianism"

its my birthday :)

Watchergate: 4/19-4/22

can you be utterly and madly in love with me for one second