get off my blog

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)

(Source: textd, via tarfilled)



Crying - Roy Orbison

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

(Source: diecry, via silkygirlclub)


Do you ever think about all of the really nice drunk girls you’ve met in bathrooms and wonder how they are doing? I miss you all

(via avdotiya)

Devil baby