Latest Posts by magpie-misfortunes - Page 2

why do i have to work. like why can't i live in a quaint cottage in the english moors with weather-worn bricks smothered in ivy and bake soft loaves of bread and gooseberry pies and wear bonnets and floaty blouses and carry a little wicker basket in the crook of my elbow and go blackberry picking in autumn and paddle ankle-deep in pebble-strewn streams and-

inside you are two wolves. one is diet coke heart-shaped sunglasses vintage diners red nail polish lollipops soft ice-cream knee-high socks lipstick stains girl blogger. the other is black coffee rainy weather turtlenecks secret history notes app poetry hand-held vhs camera autumn cable-knit sweaters tote bag thrift stores chunky rings.

it's just me and my overly intricate daydream plot against the world

beauty is rarely soft or consolatory.

quite the contrary. genuine beauty is always quite alarming.

- the secret history, donna tart

sometimes i wanna be red nails and cigarettes and cat-eye sunglasses, but then again i wanna be lipgloss and rose petals and lace, but at the same time i also like baggy sweaters and second-hand book stores and polaroids, but then i think about long scarves and fog and well-worn books, but then i see fingerless gloves and bruised knees and tangled jewellery, but also what about messy braids and daisy chains and knee-high grass, but then-

ink-stained fingers, crumpled sheets of unfinished poetry, withered roses, lipstick on the rim of a coffee cup, dark chocolate, forgotten gods, starless nights, red candles, bloody knees, ribbons in hair

feeling a little goofy, might take part in an ancient ritual in the middle of a forest with a group of insufferable greek students and accidentally kill a farmer whilst in a state of pure enlightenment, idk

thunderstorms in summer, freckles, flowers pressed between the pages of a book, lemonade, daisy chains, bare feet on dewy grass, blackberry juice on lips and fingers, messy braids, stargazing, collecting pretty rocks from streams, late night birdsong, flowers tucked behind ears, daydreaming

literally all i want in life rn is a thunderstorm. like i wanna wear an oversized cardigan that i can wrap around myself whilst i sit gloomily at a window watching the slashes of silver lightning streak the sky with a mug of hot berry tea and a candle to read a jane austen novel by. pls.

convinced that 96% of my problems would be solved if i had a private library

it's always "I love you" and never "cubitum eamus?"

girls don't want teddies or chocolates girls want you to pick them up after they cut their foot on glass whilst wading in the lake at their friend's family's mansion in the woods and when they insist that they're too heavy they want you to smile, showing a slight chip in one of your front teeth, and insist, "you're as light as a feather."

girls want henry winter.

i am girls.

i don't want a hot girl summer, i want to go and live in a crumbling, weather-worn lighthouse on the edge of a remote scottish town and wear turtlenecks and cableknit sweaters and and own a big shaggy dog and speak just a little too fondly of my late husbands mysterious death (i totally killed him) and knit scarves in the ruddy light of a mottled oil lamp and clutch a mug of hot tea whilst a storm pelts bullets of icy rain against the glass and-

Im surviving solely off of books, coffee and maladaptive daydreaming

'spit' being the past tense of 'spit' doesn't sit right with me.

Sorry I’m not here, I’m mentally at Francis's country house thinking about when Henry smile there is a slight chip in one of his front teeth and it gave his smile a very engaging quality

BEHOLD!!!!!!

i have never wanted anything more in my life than this little grumpy old-man frog. he is beautiful. he is majestic. but he is not mine :(

he would be king of the world if plushies could be elected into positions of power.

look at him. grumpy old man. oh, what woes burden your little froggy back, froggy man? he'd totally yell at kids for kicking their footballs onto his little toadstool garden and squashing his herbs.

does it ever just hit you that, like, woah, i am a bundle of blood and organs and gold and stardust held together by skin and sunburn and scars and i exist with billions of other bags of skin in this silly little society on this silly little rock in this silly little universe that is impossibly massive and i am impossibly teeny tiny in the grand scheme of humanity, and humanity is impossibly teeny tiny in the grand scheme of everything and everyone and everything i know will be reduced to dust and ashes in a blink and there is nothing i can do to prevent the constant and omnipotent advance of time-

and then you're just like damn okay and go back to doing your silly little human business