“I don’t give a shit what the world thinks. I was born a bitch, I was born a painter, I was born fucked. But I was happy in my way. You did not understand what I am. I am love. I am pleasure, I am essence, I am an idiot, I am an alcoholic, I am tenacious. I am; simply I am…You are a shit.”—Frida Kahlo, from an unsent letter to Diego Rivera (via memorrria)
But not our social status, that of course gets you exempt from an assignment or a failed test every now and then. Can’t let a player miss the championship game now. Now the rest of you, please do this assignment that you will never apply to your adult life.
i’m not like other girls. actually, i’m nothing like other girls. and that girl u saw get on the bus earlier isn’t like other girls either. it’s surprising, really. it’s almost as if everybody is different from each other. holy shit
I’ve spent a long time trying to think of the words to use to tell you— but it isn’t worth it to be indeterminate, so I will just say: I’m sorry that I died.
I didn’t know what it would do to you (I still don’t know, really, but every time you look at me, you look like you’re seeing a ghost, and you’ve seen a thousand ghosts, but when you look at me, you still look confused and scared and just a little happy, but only a little).
I didn’t know that it would make you cling to my life in a way I never did before I met you (before you, it was only existence; only numerous deaths by your association gave me the life which you cling to now so fiercely with a grip as tight as a noose, if a noose could only keep people from dying).
I’m sorry that I died, and I’m sorry you had something to remember me by that wasn’t even mine; I’m sorry you drank. I’m sorry you had nightmares. I’m sorry that you had to lose me again, to memory and monsters and my own vicious guilt.
I’m sorry we never took any pictures.
I’m sorry that I died.
I will try very, very, very hard not to do it again.
when van gogh was out painting in a field some kids shot him by mistake while they were playing with their dad’s shotgun but he told everyone he shot himself so they wouldn’t get in trouble and then he DIED and for a long time everyone thought it was suicide but it wasn’t a suicide he was just trying to help the kids that’s the saddest thing in the world im gonna throw up
It’s quite interesting when you like someone, you start to notice that everything about them seems more attractive when it seems normal to everyone else. Their smile seems so much brighter. The sound of their voice is more soothing. Their goofy laugh sounds much cuter. Every little thing about them just reels you in. It’s like their imperfections don’t seem bad at all.