♔ -- Making themes has always been incredibly relaxing and just soothing for me, however over the years there have been many incidents where people have blatantly taken my coding and tweaked/claimed it as their own. I will always keep my themes up and continue creating more so long as I'm on here, but please, please respect the credit where it is due!
♔ -- You may edit the layouts I've made in any way you would like. All I ask is that the credit stays right where I have put it, unless clearly shown elsewhere! To continue onto my themes, simply hit the 'forgive' link below!
♔ -- Please note: I no longer answer any theme questions. I will be posting a theme FAQ page which I will add to frequently, but until it is up please refrain from asking them. My apologies. Of course, if there are any serious issues feel free to contact me on my main blog.
(/// He makes love to you in the form of his favorite poem )
for some reason when i’m down listening to songs that overuse the word pussy make me feel better
I just want to fall asleep naked in a bed that smells like him, okay.
I think you can tell a lot about a lover by the types of books they read.
why do people suck when i need them to not suck
i can never remember if i’ve eaten at all in a day and i don’t know if it’s because i haven’t or if it’s some defense mechanism to save myself the depression after eating more than what i already have that day like i literally think it’s a defense mechanism
you know how sometimes someone says something and you wonder for a split second why they exist
remember when i got called a kiss slut
halloween is for being drunk and slutty and hot and eating lots of candy and drunk
ed westwick in a suit or ed westwick in a suit am i right or am i right
It’s funny because I might be one of the only people who knows how fucking miserable and pathetic you actually are, away from all of the fronts. Even if you’ve gotten yourself to believe differently. I know how empty you are. You have absolutely nothing when it comes down to it. And I don’t for a second feel sorry for you. You think surrounding yourself with people will hide you in between them and people won’t see through it and the people I feel sorry for is the ones that believe that you’re anything different than what you’ve always been. Spiteful relationships will get you nowhere but even more of an excuse of a full person than you already are. I’d rather have moments of loneliness and lack of true friends than find comfort in people that aren’t any sort of benefit to me at all. I am happy with the fact that I have very few but solid close friends, and that they have been my friends since the relationship bloomed in the first place, they haven’t been back and forth friends. They haven’t ever been against me or cruel towards me. They have been genuine friends throughout the entire friendship, not spotty and whenever they choose that they want to be. That is a friendship. That is a source of happiness. Not the makeshift life you are simulating yourself into. You are a sad person. You are drained of everything but faux happiness and a good time. You think I care about you but you don’t see I stopped awhile ago when I realized you didn’t either. You think I worry about who you are with and broadcast it to be noticed for what you’re doing when in reality if you were truly over it and didn’t care about me whatsoever you wouldn’t have any point to prove. There would be nothing but silence between us because there is nothing there. And there never will be again. And that bothers you. That hurts you. That destroys or has already eaten up some part of you that you will never get back. I’ve moved on. We have moved on. My happiness has nothing to do with you in any slightest way, the people I surround myself with are of intentions that have no single inkling of relevance to you. You do not exist in my life. You are trying to, I can see it. I can only hope for your own sake that you someday learn to accept the person that you are and have been and maybe grow out of it, rather than swallowing it down and keeping yourself from actual happiness and life.
It’s sickening that some part of me craves and looks forward to situations and feelings and outcomes that will temporarily make my life a living hell. It’s sad that all I can think during the duration of a screaming argument is how many pages it will get me. Pain is relief in one of the cruelest forms and if I didn’t have writing to go to I’d fucking be dead.
Unfairly attractives guys don’t intimidate me much anymore because most of them have such simple and shallow minds that I could never be touched by them enough to even be hurt in the first place.
Maybe it came off as rude. Maybe it came across as immature and grandiose in all shapes of the word. As aggravated as I might get sometimes when people seem to mimic things I do it doesn’t get to me most often. Honestly it only does on weak days, days when it’s too hot or I haven’t done enough to stimulate my mind and stuff. Usually though I just feel sorry for the people that take it to extreme lengths as to not take me or my writing or the person I am as inspiration or a muse but as some translucent canvas to copy onto their own. It’s sad because someone might fall in love with them because of it and that person will have fallen in love with a complete stranger. The person that someone is portraying isn’t them in the slightest. So many people ask me what it means to be a sleepy girl and what is the definition of a sleepy girl and how to become a sleepy girl but they are asking the wrong questions. It doesn’t make sense as to why they are even asking them. They are asking how to become someone else entirely and fit them on like an untailored suit and what they don’t know is it looks so fraudulent and off on them that it could be recognized by a single glance. People who have taken my writings rather than used them as a sight of inspiration as I said don’t get that it shows. The voice is off. The commas are placed in such a foreign way and you can’t read it smoothly, you can’t read it without stopping and going back because it didn’t make sense. It will never make sense. You can’t use someone elses words and expect them to reflect as deeply and affectionately onto yourself as they do to who they belong to. The only reason my words may make me more attractive is because they are mine. That’s simply it. The only things that could possibly make me attractive are the things that solely belong to me and aren’t cheap and stale makeups of what someone else carries around and is noticed for. I am noticed for my writing. That is one of the main things that makes me who I am. I am noticed because I am myself in every sickening and intriguing way possible. I don’t hide it. I’m raw and I am so open it’s almost disgusting. But that’s all that gives me the possibility to be loved and noticed. That’s all that makes me exist. Other people can try and mirror it all they’d like to, you won’t strike any anger against me unless you’re taking something that is mine (i.e. those of you that I’ve caught stealing my writing). I’ll go on with my day and won’t give it another thought, but the few moments I spend looking at you or finding myself in you I’ll feel nothing but sorry and tired. There’s nothing sadder to me than someone else trying on the body and mind of someone else. There is nothing beautiful about that. There is nothing noticeable about that. I wish people would see that the most fascinating things that would give them a taste of being found and seen as beautiful and intoxicating are the things and details that make them so unbearably themselves. And that’s it. They are just themselves. That’s when they’re clear, that’s when they’re striking and complete. Those are the people I notice and the few writers on this site that I am immediately infatuated with. Because their presence comes through and swells up my throat and for awhile it becomes an obsession. It’s rare. And that makes stumbling upon them all the more invigorating and saddening at the same time. So many people are wrapped up in wearing pieces of others on their bodies. I don’t have the time. I don’t. I am too busy feeling what it is to be Shanny. And it’s exhausting. Maybe that’s why no one really does it.