falconephobic
julie, open the door, i can hear you mumbling.
starlest
etencore
❝NO, THAT ISN’T…THAT’S NOT WHAT I MEANT, YOU KNOW THAT’S NOT WHAT I MEANT, WHAT I MEAN IS SOMETIMES THIS BUSINESS ISN’T EVERYONE’S CUP OF TEA.❞
cntessa
this message may be offensive
I THOUGHT IT COULD’VE USED WORK ON THE SCRIPT, I MEAN, HALF THE SHIT THAT WAS IN THERE… I WOULDN’T EVEN PUT THAT IN A KID’S PROGRAM. AND THE LIGHTING, GOOD GOD.. IT’S LIKE THEY WERE TRYING TO SET YOU UP FOR FAILURE. I CAN TALK TO PEOPLE, YOU KNOW… GET YOU SOMETHING BETTER.
starlest
* i will make with her what sam levinson was too scared and stupid to do with the idol
starlest
* @onslaughts it’s a show soaking w dichotomy bc the scenes with the weeknd’s character literally makes my skin itch and crawl and ache but the IM A FREAK YEAH SONG WONT LEAVE MY MIND?? + i need the original idea of the show of the harsh realities of showbizz on a pop girlie to be avenged i just do
starlest
* stop copying me ur not even doing it right :((
ilokind
can i sit here?
maneats
and .. you need my help with / what / exactly ?
siberiankiss
this message may be offensive
place’s closing, girl. y’all gotta beat it. [ door to the dressing room swing’s open and there he stands, arms crossed expectantly, blunt hanging from his lips. nose scrunches and he pulls the roach away after a short drag, leaning against the frame while his eyes pry for any source of life ] jesus, the fuck died in here? it stinks.
killsolved
[ brows furrow as she approaches the steps to her building to find a waif-y blonde sprawled across the steps unconscious, barricading her safe haven (if such a run dingy place could be called that). though tempted to step around, already on the verge of passing out herself, she instead crouches down in front of the girl, first checking her pulse, then tapping her cheek ] uh.. excuse me, hon, are you alright?
starlest
this message may be
offensive
[night after night, a forever crusade of gin and tonic. watercolors flaunted, candid, on sore legs she catches aria from makeup mutter profanities under her breath about, thinning gristle from a week long fast, chorus to a song she wakes up humming to on the filthy doorstep of someone that reeks distinctly of piss. the insipid emptiness of the street and the stillness of early morning air does little to faze her drowsy state. the bleach in her hair feels new, as if still frying. she doesn’t mind the hand on the meat of her cheek. not at all.]
JULIE YE, running behind schedule — left in the dark on what the hour, day and month it is exactly, to @killsolved: fuck..
[trails of dried mascara carry evidence of face being baptized with pulp teardrops. some sort of salted liberation evidently having knocked her out on pavement steps and used prada borsa as pillow. rabid consciousness kicks in and JULIE garners just enough strength on whitened limbs to push torso and uncoordinated head up. gaze, still blurry, just about make out sharpie scribbling on the back of hand in the pull up and scurry to find a face. any face.]
JULIE: are you—— are you vivian castro? i think i was, like, looking for you. are you her? you kinda.. look like a vivian.
flat7ined
I think you’re more messed up than you realise.
starlest
[her hollywood house, located 1475 harrison–what’s–his–face avenue in los angeles, is lifeless and grey with brutalist edges trashed by the echoing cacophony of petulant party goers inside. the crowd roars of beeping and all sorts of odious screaming pollutes the frisky night air freezing her otherwise achromatic face a sub–zero pink hue. JULIE YE’s photographed with a skeletal limbs swaying out from the edge of an infinity pool overlooking busy city of stars in brandish display. no doubt captured by the vulture paparazzi staring at her solitary figure from another hill. a momentary tug of the wind edges her closer to the blinding lights of the city, as if confusing them for stars up above.]
JULIE, resentment rubbing off on weakened vibrato, to @verzsesang: then i wish i was broke. like, dirt poor. bathes in the lake sort of thing.
[turning to look behind her back in sweet–succumbed paranoia for the twelfth time the past hour alone to finally find company.]
JULIE, perfumed in smoke, dried–up liquor, trashed with the discards of a girl’s french lingerie and an off–script smile: i like how you visit me during these sort of affairs. the big ones. company’s nice to have during the big ones..
