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The screaming flames added a certain je ne sais quoi to the room. An ambiance if you will. They matched my aesthetic.
Yes, my aesthetic was mental illness; no, I didn’t want to talk about it.
That part
My shoulders ached from carrying the weight of being the coolest person at the academy.
Kinda like my back from carrying all this ass 🤪
I was no man’s princess. However, I was a whore.
Being a slut wasn’t a title, it was a lifestyle.
“Yes, sir!” I raised my middle finger to my forehead and saluted them sarcastically.
I fantasize about doing this at work sometimes
“I recommend just preemptively euthanizing yourself. Your personality is messy, and I don’t see it improving.”
I’m gonna use this line one day
Never mind—death to all men.
Man-eater aura points x10
Normalize gaslighting men.
In a religious way, immediate smash. In a realistic way, hard pass.
Each day last week I’d woken up and said my morning affirmation: “I am the victim.”
Mentally, I was a slut. Physically, I was terrified of intimacy. Spiritually, I didn’t like men.
My new aesthetic was cozy, drug-dependent swamp monster. Not to brag, but I nailed the look.
Last time I took a man seriously, I lost my will to live.
My personality traits were: (1) spiteful, (2) bitch.
Straight women were so weird.
Excited to announce, I’m going to stop giving men the benefit of the doubt.
“Get up sluts it’s time to sin.”
“You’re a perfect, flawless queen. There is not one thing wrong with you. You are the ideal female.” Who was going to tell him? He was spot on.
Six hands grabbed my butt. I shimmied my hips and smiled. Whores be like.
I chuckled at my joke. Why was I actually hilarious?
Physically, I was hideous. Mentally, I was worse. Spiritually, I was a slut.
I’d said it before, and I’d say it again: men were deranged, and they should all be shot. On sight. No questions asked.
Agreed. Does this make me psychotic? Maybe. I hope my therapist never finds my Goodreads
I’d forgotten that my friend had the endurance of an asthmatic suffering from tuberculosis.
Same Sadie
It was disturbingly simple: I’d cried as a baby and engulfed my fathers in flames.
That’s… terrifying
Who talked about their feelings?
This was why people bullied theater kids. They grew up to do stuff like that.
“I’m not a queen.” I smiled. “I’m a dictator.”
I loved you as a breathtaking woman, and I love you right now, my little wounded warrior. I will always love you.”
Wasn’t love caring for someone more than you cared about yourself? It was about being there for them. Standing up for them. Laughing with them. Love made the darkest days feel brighter.
People were annoying.
Every day, I hated people a little more.
“Drink, Aran,” John whispered as Luka pressed the warm liquid into my mouth with his tongue.
Nut immediately
“Good girl, taking it from his tongue,”
Not to get political, but men suck.
My soul’s taste in men was officially a form of self-harm.
