I'm craving a song lyric around my wrist, like a bracelet of chains, holding me down.
"theres more to life than second chances."
When I fuck my boyfriend, I pretend Im really fucking Wes Anderson. He's brilliant. I seem to watch the Royal Tenebaums over and over and over and over again, and it never makes any sense. I'm looking for sense in the senseless. Are we all overproduced?
Who knew that Marc Jacobs was so marked up? With colored stars all over his body. And a name scrawled across his chest.