Fuck your pegboard.
And you cute little teapot.
Still got a few beautiful Moe Moe Japanese Arch images here. How’s this one?
(source: http://moe.vg/JtxNg0)
I tried to write more on this post, but I started writing something else instead.
[video]
[video]
….insert “passive aggressive” between “anonymous” and “note”…..
(via mabelmoments)
"I Want Republicans in My Vagina."
About the time I was coming back into my own, I was getting my master’s degree in Literature from Large State University with Well-Known English Program and I took a film studies class, where we started out with the earliest films.
And that’s when I “met” Theda Bara, learned that she was pre-Hays code, and loved every second of “A Fool There Was.” I fell in and then the process creeped in gradually, though my boyfriends still hated it every time I tried to get red hair.
My current love adores the red and I finished my Ph.D. recently with a renewed sense of who I am after a nice, long hiatus from the boys.
Some people have “Fuck you” money—I have a “fuck you” education.
I remember listening to Siouxsie in my early-ish teens, just not the first time I heard her music. I remember blasting “Dazzle” in my car or “Cities in Dust.” I had this piece of shit Buick Skyhawk—it’s former owner was a frat boy. I remember remarking to my father, who is a cop, that I hoped he’d checked the trunk for any bodies.
I think it’s my father and that whole period of my life—the things that happened before it molding it—that really defined many of my interests. At that age, I dressed with your average cardigan and shorts—and had really blonde hair—but wore some black eyeliner and drove around listening to Front 242, Siouxsie (like I said), The Cure (Disintegration forevah), Sugarcubes, Bauhaus and Peter Murphy, and so on. And let’s not forget the poetry I wrote for the lit mag—talk about dramatic and dark.
Clearly, I was confused about my identity, and part of this came from the fact that I was kind of—I hate to admit it—but a tad popular as the blonde “normal” girl who just “happened” to be an inner goth. I still talked to and loved the goths at school, but naturally they could see my issues.
Every now and then I’d goth it some. It grew after high school, but I’d still wear the damn tank tops and jeans to college with the bleach blonde hair—and for years following I still got blonde highlights. In retrospect, so fucking weird because, as my friends who were either punk-, glam-, or goth-identified throught *I* was the fucked up one. They were right.
I’m a custom-colored read head, now, with a closet full of black lolita skirts and some pretty kick-ass corsets. Yeah, I got over whatever it was—ok, let’s just say it: men—that was holding me back.
(Source: everythingisgoneforever, via lashesandstars)