I


I am at the grocery store with my friends heading towards the alcohol section. While they get a beer for themselves I grab three. And a bottle of cheap liquor (to make sure I won’t be sober until the sun rises up again). I feel their concerned looks on me as I examine bottle after bottle to find the one with the highest alcohol content. Halfway out the store, I open the beer and empty half of it with one gulp. “It’s only 5pm,” I hear somebody mumble. “So?”
I don’t want to be that girl, but


II


Five weeks ago I got drunk on tequila at an electronic music festival. After twenty minutes of dancing, I went to the nearest supermarket and lifted six plastic bottles of beer.
Later that night, I sat in a stranger’s room drinking the wine he offered me while he told me he studied music and played stuff in his guitar. He said: “Boys are assholes and I don’t want to use you,” but I still ended up in his bed, eventually giving him head. The morning after, I got dressed while he was still asleep. I thought about him on the train ride home. When I arrived, I went straight to the bathroom and threw up.
I don’t want to be that girl, but


III


Two weeks ago, I lay on a couch in a small, dirty bedroom filled with smoke and a bunch of boys who were too stoned to move. I sipped on my second glass of vodka when one of them asked what I wanted to do in the future. I told him: “Write.” and he said I should go for it because he still remembered the stories I wrote in elementary school. “You’re talented.” “Thanks,” I replied quietly with a timid but seductive smile on my lips. He told me I was really pretty and I accidentally pushed up my short black dress a litte too far.
I don’t want to be that girl, but


IV


The last time I got blackout drunk, I woke up hungover with spray paint in my hair and bruises on my cheeks. When I opened my notebook I found three of the 1€ razor blades I bought at the drug store covered in blood and a note that said: “I hope he never puts his hands on me again.”
I don’t want to be that girl, but


V


I love the way liqour burns my throat and sets a poisonous fire in my bloodstream. I love the way it hurts me. Hurt me. I want to feel flames consuming my insides instead of nothingness and insomnia and stomach acid.
I don’t want to be that girl, but neither do I want to be myself.

Why people still refer to me as “that girl”, by sprachkunst (via sprachkunst)

disneysmermaids:

cherribalm:

site that you can type in the definition of a word and get the word

site for when you can only remember part of a word/its definition 

site that gives you words that rhyme with a word

site that gives you synonyms and antonyms

THAT FIRST SITE IS EVERY WRITER’S DREAM DO YOU KNOW HOW MANY TIMES I’VE TRIED WRITING SOMETHING AND THOUGHT GOD DAMN IS THERE A SPECIFIC WORD FOR WHAT I’M USING TWO SENTENCES TO DESCRIBE AND JUST GETTING A BUNCH OF SHIT GOOGLE RESULTS

matt-the-catt:

snakeoil:

my favorite thing in the entire universe 

Gonna send this to my crush