Ask me anything
21, grand rapids, medical research/anthropology student, model, lover and dreamer, anthropologie store employee, cow-eating fox-wearing, marc jacobs addicted (with a handbag collection that makes girls cringe with jealousy), music festival lovin' girl.
my first ever GPOY
"The stupid jerk I’m obsessed with stands so close to me I can feel his breath on my neck and smell the way he would smell if we slept together because he is The Stupid Jerk I’m Obsessed with and that is his primary function in life to be a Stupid Jerk I can Obsess over and to talk with that dinghy bim bat blonde as if he really wanted to hear about her manicures and pedicures and new age ritualistic enema cures and truth be known he probably does want to hear about it because he is The Stupid Jerk I’m Obsessed with and he’s obsessed with doing anything he can to lend fuel to my fire.
He makes a point of standing, looking over my shoulder when I’m talking to the guy who adores me and would bark like a dog and wave to strangers if I asked him to bark like a dog and wave to strangers, but I can’t ask him to bark like a dog or impersonate any kind of animal at all cuz I’m too busy lookin at the way The Stupid Jerk I’m Obsessed with has pants on that perfectly define his well shaped ass to the point where I’m thoroughly frantic.
I’m just gonna go home and stick my head in the oven, overdose on nutmeg and aspirin and sit in the bathtub reading the executioners song and being completely confounded by the fact that I can see The Stupid Jerk I’m Obsessed with’s face defining itself in the peeling plaster of the wall grinning and winking and I start to yell “get the hell out a there. You’re just a figment of my imagination. Just get a life and get out of my plaster and pass me the next painful situation, please.” But he just keeps on grinning and winking. He’s a Stupid Jerk I’m Obsessed with and he’s mine, in my plaster and frankly I couldn’t be happier. ”
YOU WOULD BE CUTE WITH MY ALEXANDER MCQUEEN HEEL SHOVED UP YOUR ASS. Yes, I am aware that I have the haircut of a twelve year old boy, and guess what? I LOVE IT. I sleep better at night. I embrace it. I ain’t neva met a bitch with long hair that I liked. Grow a pair, cut your hair, coolness is having courage, etc. Let me guess, you probably want me to get rid of my custom mixed red for blonde or brunette, too? Fuck off.