people shower because its a trend. its not something that needs to be done its not something that we can its not like drinking food or water its not something that we its im sorry its not something that we actually need its just something that peopl...
2morrow is th last day of term ...! :-( 🧍♀️i am gnna do sexy thimgs like .. listening 2 japanese breakfast .! + slowdive =) + phoebe bridgers + fiona apple :DD .!! & i am gnna watcj skims cos . Maxxie ♡ ᵕ̈ Cassie ♡ ᵕ̈ ! & hopefully not fall in2 ed habits but ...! :-)))
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do u guys wnna c danny wheeler's partially written death scene frm last october ....! A Bitch Is Dead . Good 4 Him . Brilliant 4 Him . A Mad Lad Evn Frm Th Grave 🚶🏻
n e ways i hv nuthin better 2 do egg sept CRY nd PIME OVR SUM1 NEW nd LISTEM 2 LESBIAN MUSIC ..! so u guys get a deluxe first-class sneak peek 4 th wrst death scene evr nd th death is not evn written yet =))) !
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Truth or dare in Kaurevale is a level of hell that reduces the devils to tears.
The frost and festivity of Winter has long dissolved into tender things. Spring has buckled up, taken its sugar-coated seat behind the wheel; trees are frilled as royal palace princess nightgowns with breaths of soft, pink blossom; the sky bleeds from a chilled, anaemic thing into tufts of cotton candy fresh from the fairgrounds; the air is nausea-inducingly sweet and the breeze remembers to kiss its knuckles before it punches them in the face. All of the Christmas trees have been taken down. Most are back in the basement, specifically Jason Aimund's shitty little one in his shitty big house in their shitty little-big town; which is, of fucking course, their serendipitous holy ground for truth or dare ceremonies and drinking games.
"Danny, you want the last slice?"
Danny's eyes flit from a loose thread on his letterman jacket to Brandon offering the final slice of pepperoni pizza — from the land of legends, Mellow Johnson's. It's hulking, ruthless on the cheese, a little bit crooked. "All good," he dismisses, hand travelling back to that thread of navy-blue that sticks out like a sullen middle-schooler at a little sibling's school performance. It wants him dead. It wants him terminated. "Had enough of your mom tonight, anyway. Think I'll be quenched for the rest of the night."
Those eyes of his that closely resemble mocha beans rolling, Brandon passes the pizza box to Dolores, who never even asked for it ("What kind of cardboard fetish—"), and snorts out a laugh. "Piss off, Wheeler."
With the impartial wrinkle of her nixie nose, Dolores shoves the box into Angeline's lap, and Angeline promptly drops it by Quinn's free hand with an apologetic smile; so Quinn decides he'll play along, and the box slides like a hockey puck all the way to Stephen; to Caspar, who blinks and breaks out into a grin; then Jason; then Irene; then Randall; then Minnie; then, finally, Brandon's foot gets in the way of it, and a collective groan furls from everybody. Some kind of slurred connection is stretched taut and tight and achingly between them in this basement tonight, like a string of strawberry dollar-store bubblegum between the Cupid-rotted teeth of two lovers.
