"why bother drinking decaf coffee if it defeats the point of drinking coffee-" Do you possess no capacity for whimsy? Do you never rest? Must everything you consume work towards fulfilling a need, serving a higher purpose? Must your pursuit of happiness be marred by the constant desire for practicality, and progress, and utility? Can you not just like the taste of coffee
tehe i made a little uquiz you should take it tehehehe
chaotic academia is learning latin on duolingo
what the FUCK do you mean not everyone percieves me the same way I do?????? what about all my efforts trying to appear mysterious and hot and perfect and interesting?????????? what am I supposed to do now, exist without the self-imposed burden of constantly orchestrating my every action to fulfil a specific outwards portrayal????????????
girls don't want teddies or chocolates girls want you to pick them up after they cut their foot on glass whilst wading in the lake at their friend's family's mansion in the woods and when they insist that they're too heavy they want you to smile, showing a slight chip in one of your front teeth, and insist, "you're as light as a feather."
girls want henry winter.
i am girls.
an incomplete collection of tweets i consider to be short poems
why do i have to work. like why can't i live in a quaint cottage in the english moors with weather-worn bricks smothered in ivy and bake soft loaves of bread and gooseberry pies and wear bonnets and floaty blouses and carry a little wicker basket in the crook of my elbow and go blackberry picking in autumn and paddle ankle-deep in pebble-strewn streams and-
BEHOLD!!!!!!
i have never wanted anything more in my life than this little grumpy old-man frog. he is beautiful. he is majestic. but he is not mine :(
he would be king of the world if plushies could be elected into positions of power.
look at him. grumpy old man. oh, what woes burden your little froggy back, froggy man? he'd totally yell at kids for kicking their footballs onto his little toadstool garden and squashing his herbs.
Dancing in a hazy nightmare;
Loving in a sharp daydream
Sorry I’m not here, I’m mentally at Francis's country house thinking about when Henry smile there is a slight chip in one of his front teeth and it gave his smile a very engaging quality
ink-stained fingers, crumpled sheets of unfinished poetry, withered roses, lipstick on the rim of a coffee cup, dark chocolate, forgotten gods, starless nights, red candles, bloody knees, ribbons in hair