Me: I Need A Library Card, But I Just Moved So I Don’t Have An ID With My Address Or Any Mail With

The biggest misconception in public schools is that literary analysis is about proving you can be right or wrong about a book you read

Literary analysis isn’t about the book

It’s not even about being right

It’s about performing an investigation and presenting your case to the jury

It doesn’t matter if your defendant killed that guy or not. If you can convince the jury he didn’t, you’ve won

And the incredible life skill of spinning bulletproof bullshit out your ass with a handful of facts and a prayer is soooooooo much more valuable than anyone’s ever gonna tell you

💋✨

So in English class we had to draw a scene from The Great Gatsby. After the drawings were done the teacher was showing them to the class, and one drawing was a pic of Gatsby reaching towards at the green light, but in the drawing Gatsby didn’t have hands. So my teacher starts saying something like how this picture has hidden meaning and portrays the helplessness Gatsby feels, and the kid next to me just casually says “I can’t draw hands.”

My fatal flaw? I can't name genres of music.

How can people hear a bunch of funky tunes and think "Ah yes, this is Indie Folk Rock with Punk influences" like what???

That's the thing about people who haven't been loved much..They think about every kind gesture, a slightest touch of fingers, kind smiles, random acts of love, intimacy in every small thing done. They find that love wherever they can cause it was never given to them freely. They don't ask for love, they search for it everywhere.

au where everything is the same except they come back with astral plane white hair

How long does someone have to be dead before it’s considered archeology instead of grave robbing?

I have a friend who has one biological and one adopted son and I found out he likes to tell people “my firstborn is six and my other child is eleven” which is hilarious.

Thirty love letters? That’s...wow. Whoever they’re for must’ve lit up something rare in you. Kinda makes me wonder what it’d be like to be written about like that

I didn’t write them because I was full of love. I wrote them because I was starving for it. Because I kept trying to turn pain into poetry and it still tasted like blood in the end.

Each letter is a small funeral, a small place to bury a dream that never got to live. I wrote to hands that never reached back. To eyes that never looked at me like I mattered, to ghosts that haunt the shape of love but never stay long enough to be real.

I wrote them because no one told me how quiet heartbreak could be, how it doesn’t always scream, how sometimes it just sits next to you like a tired friend and watches you rot from the inside out. They were just things I needed to say before they drowned me.

Things like:

I miss you even though there was never a you.

I love you even though no one ever stayed long enough to be loved.

Don’t go even though they already did.

I wrote thirty love letters and someday, someone will find them and pretend they were about them but I’ll know the truth.

They were for the hollowness, for the version of me that begged for someone to stay and learned that no one does.

Find yourself a man who proposes to you using a ring pop candy