get off my blog

surprise we had babies!!!! 

babiesm

babiesm

thewreckords:

DARKSIDE // Paper Trails

The breasts were the most apparent on the glass figurine. She stood tall, clasping her belly, eyes inverted downward. The corner of her lips curled to the bottom of her chin. Her cheeks crystalled. She had lived a glass statue all her life, fattening decadently with time. Crowned the champion of staring contests, all time was spent in constant opposition. One grimy girl, yellowed at the skin, had been her only challenger for life. Here we have it folks, a new day! Who will win in this match of total concentration? Will it be the glass doll, our sweetheart and former champ? Or will it be the herbivorous wombat, swatting her tongue at anything that’ll flush down? But it was always the glass doll that won. 

Senator for Breakfast

How many calories? It was the first thought that came to my mind as I licked the envelope, encasing a letter from some republican senator begging for money. Choices for jobs were limited as I refused to work in either food or retail (a ploy to protect my diseased head). Though I encourage premarital sex, gay sex, death of babies after sex, I took the job as a data entry specialist for a republican financial firm because, if anything, I figured I wouldn’t have to think about my goddamn anorexia. And yet there I was, pulling out the mental calculator, wondering how many bites I’d have to skip at dinner to make up for this little slip. No, no, no. It wasn’t right. I shook my head and continued stuffing envelopes, hoping I could shove them in the mailbox before my boss noticed that half of them were dirty and misshapen.  

I’d just been to therapy two days ago. It was the first time in seven months that I’d sat on that blue couch, confessing my broken thoughts to the woman I’d wished was my mother. I told her of the urges I’d had, the ones that can put you in the hospital if you’re not careful to phrase them casually enough. I told her of starving, slicing my skin, sleeping all hours, cleansing insecurities with gin… I told her of the times I didn’t pick up the phone when I was almost certain the police were calling to tell me a friend was dead. Suicide, they’d say. Where were you, they’d say. I told her exactly where I was: lying in bed, groaning into my pillow, praying the pills had done their job on that suicidal friend of mine. Good, I’d say. One less problem for me, I’d say. At the end of our session… she told me therapy was exactly where I needed to be. And to take my medicine. And to be careful with the gin.

I licked two more envelopes after that one. I licked them and wondered if I could ever be pregnant, or if I’d just starve the fetus out of its shell. I licked them and thought of all the times I’d held my breath for fear of inhaling calories through my nostrils. I licked them and decided there was no safe job for a person like me, not even the job of pretending to be a professional republican envelope stuffer. I licked them, shoved them in the mailbox, and decided on twenty-three calories.  

sayin goodbye

my blog has become a mesh of creepy photos of stephen and me and i m sorry im obxnousisouss (ps stephveENN u gna be grossed out that theres a kissin pic? mmmm) 

my celebrity boyfriend (ft the twerk sweatshirt) 

my celebrity boyfriend (ft the twerk sweatshirt) 

what it tells me TW

I’d like to shove my fingers so far back into my throat that I gag my spleen up, oh yeah. The entirety of my organs, all chucked right into the toilet. But baby, it’s more than that. It’s better to take it slow, to let those organs rot inside you while you neglect to water them daily. Food? Nah. Only when it’s real light. Only when it’s the shit that fills you up and it’s made mostly of nothin. Only the mushrooms and celery. Mmmmm. Water? Fuck no. You know what that shit does to you? Water weight is a real thing, baby. You gotta restrict to stay alive. Feel that pinge in the pit of your stomach? That’s your momma chearin’ you on. You go, baby. Revert back to that five pound fetus. Maybe then you’ll be better. A real renowned being. See, no one knows shit until they’re miserable. No one’s worth a damn. You gotta be hunched over your blackened corpse before you mean anything to this world. You gotta be sick, gotta be cultured, and gotta look damn good doing it. You can’t show pain, can’t show weakness. You just gotta look down at your jetting bones and laugh when they give you that praise. Oh you! Let me capture you in time, baby. Let me see you sick, real sick. Let me get you at the core, a toothpick in my picture frame. See, I gotta freeze you! You’re all there is. Tomorrow your bones’ll be crouched around the toilet, organs in the bowl, spitting out the last bursts of life. But you’re a real good looker right now, ya know? And would you believe that all it takes is the grand decay of sanity? Give me a piece of that fat to chomp on, baby. I’ll chew it right up. Sure, you may only live to thirty three, but hell… you’ll look damn fine doing it. Hear that? They’re ALL doing it. You just gotta beat them at their own game. Oh yeah, mommy may be on a diet, but you’re on THE diet! You can pinch an inch? Well honey, it’s your time to starve. No more food for you, baby. You see that one down there? Rail thin at the food trucks? You gotta beat her, baby. You gotta show her who’s REALLY in charge here. And how do you do that? By walking past those fucking trucks while your stomach makes a real happy purr and you don’t even salivate at the grilled chickies. You wanna be real good? Well stomp your fucking toes in the dirt so hard you can’t move. Stay there until you die. Bring a book. Do it well. Decay real good. Die standing up, organless.

may 13th 2014

may 13th 2014

One Headlight - The Wallflowers

(Source: erikfuckinglehnsherr)

avdotiya:

yanni-knights-united:

Crying - Roy Orbison

There were a lot of dudes crying about shit and playing guitar in the early 1960’s

Devil baby

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