Seaingsummer - T

with a heavy heart i go to bed knowing i have to leave it tmr morning

How I look when I’m busy rebloging on tumblr

There’s a level of confessional that only occurs when someone is driving you home late at night

i know he's busy and all, but i just want some attention

i went to a tiny counterserve diner once and accidentally poured sugar instead of salt all over my hashbrowns and was eating them sadly anyways. the waitress took them away and started making me another one and I tried to protest, but she just snorted and said "we're not catholic here". now every time i'm doing something painful out of obligation i think about how that is not repenting, this body is not a catholic establishment, there is no nobility in suffering.

Ever since I was a little girl I knew I wanted to go back to bed

My asshole coach took me out of today’s game because I missed practice one (1) day last week but it’s fine because I forgot what having a free morning felt like. I slept in, woke up, had my vitamins and a glass of water, stretched, went on a quick 5 mile run, got home and smoked half a joint, took nudes downstairs in front of the giant antique mirror in my living room, made shakshuka to have with the fresh sourdough loaf a friend made me yesterday, let my animals roam outside while I watered my plants, laid under the running water until I climaxed and then took a long cold shower, laid in bed and let the sunlight peaking from the blinds kiss my skin for a few minutes, put on the first thing I could find and my favorite flip flops, changed out my cars cds, and now I’m sitting here debating what to listen to on my way to the farmer’s market to stock up on my favorite decadent coconut yogurt and some things to make ‘nduja and gorgonzola pasta for dinner. I’m thinking it’s a red house painters and bob dylan kind of day

i NEED to sit by the SEA and FORGET that i’m ALIVE

“If all was quiet, I’d stroll past the staircase to the kitchen, where the lingering smells of toast (Lockwood) or tea cake (George and Kipps) gave clues to who might be in.”

— The Empty Grave, Jonathan Stroud