“We Have Fallen Into The Trap”

I LOVE FLORENCE SO MUCH

Some of my favorite Florence outfits ❤️‍🔥

‘Flutter’, oil on wood, Henrik Aa. Uldalen.

The Runaways: Cherry Bomb

Sometimes I wish I was born in the 70s or at least lived through it. The 70s and 90s seemed so amazing. Then I remember the serial killers and little human rights and I'm okay with being where I am now. But I wanna be in the 70s with the same or even better rights that we have now. The social constructs of today but in the 70s and 90s. That would be my perfect generation

I love the music, fashion, vibes, and people from those years. They feel like my people, not to mention all of them being so fucking attractive. All I can do is put in my earbuds, turn on music, and daydream

Me

I fall in love with men too that look like this too easily 💔

Chris Cornell photographed on the A&M Records Backlot in December 1989

Credit to Robert Matheu/Camera Press

I feel like I'm losing my spark a little bit. I'm not as happy, fun, or exciting as I used to be, or as life used to be. I'm slowly getting it back, but I'm not sure. I'm mostly around people who are older than me, who aren't as weird as I am. I think I'm just overly masking, and it's taking a bad toll on me. I care too much about what people think, rather than what just makes me happy.

I'm not around people who encourage my real side to come out anymore. Ever since last year happened, I've changed so much. I've shut myself off from the world. I know recognition is the first step to change, but I wish it would happen faster...

Me at work but I still get tipped 😸🤤

Art by Welder Wings.

Here’s a snippet of a ficlet (before I had ficterruptus) for the lovely @m-faithfull … *Warning - not polished, and very silly (wait, that's everything I write 😁)*

You’ve made it. Backstage. The Holy Land. And sans even the slightest particle of dust on your knees. Your excitement is palpable, nearly overwhelming as you struggle to drink in every last drop. Your wild wonderment reluctantly dwindles into dull surprise as you realize that it’s not exactly what you expected. In fact, it left more than a little to be desired. Stark lighting … check. The stench of cold concrete and stale cigarettes … check. Half-dressed girls with glittery daggers for eyes … double check. No, make that triple, you muse, your gaze flickering up and down exhibits A, B, and C. They’re surrounded by boisterous roadies doling out favors on what appears to be a sliding scale. The more generous the slide, the more generous the favor. You clench your teeth as you watch the festivities, nearly gagging by proxy. Your revelation creeps into a pang of disappointment. Holy Land? More like Sodom and Gomorrah. Not glamorous. Not by a long shot. Completely dispirited, you turn on your heel to leave, freezing as a splash of red catches your eye. Searing needles fill your cheeks, and you blink, not quite sure if you’re seeing what you think you see. The third flutter confirms it. You are. It’s Robert, floating above the fray, and he’s staring at you. Right at you, cigarette dangling from his lips, that trademark dimple slowly deepening. Your heart skips a beat as you read the glimmer in his eye. It’s full of mischief and fun, and perhaps something a bit more carnal. Your gaze drifts to the paper taped haphazardly next to him, but you can’t decipher the scribble and assume it’s a makeshift sign for the dressing room. You glance back, but he’s turned toward a bear of a man donning a white suit and a black bowler hat. That must be Bonham. Your suspicions are validated as Robert lets loose a howling laugh.

“Christ, Bonzo, how many times are you going in there? Gives new meaning to the term drum stool.”

“Fuck you, mate.”

“Maybe they should just replace yours with a commode, yeah?”

“Piss off. I was workin’ on something for Zoe. And it’s the only fuckin’ quiet place around here.”

“What’s it this time? Another scarf?” With a smirk, Robert leans into his friend. “Better not let Pagey have a look.”

“Yeah, yeah. It’s a bloody jumper, you git.” The drummer grunts. “I’m thinkin’ about doing a muzzle next, but I’m not quite sure if I can make it big enough for your fat gob.” 

As Bonzo lumbers past him, he gives Robert a tiny shove, eliciting another smile from the singer as he resumes his inspection of you. His fingers clutch his belt buckle, and you follow their progress, transfixed by the sight. They’re so big. Every inch of him is so big … hands, chest, thighs. And other things. You realize that you’re holding your breath. He slinks off the doorframe and takes a step toward you, but you panic, whirling around and darting into the closest room you can find. The heavy panel clicks shut behind you, and you inhale deeply, only to have your solace interrupted. You’re not alone. Your jaw drops as Jimmy’s head jerks up, his delicate, yarn draped fingers outfitted with the largest pair of knitting needles you’ve ever seen. Your shocked gazes lock for a beat, and you pray the grin that’s begging for release stays put. But the guitarist's pretty, pink pout lets you know it’s too late.