Monday, March 28, 2016
Sunday, February 14, 2016
I am, it's true, something of a hopeless romantic. Always living some fantasy of a life that wasn't; my waking hours most often spent writing letters to men who may or may not exist and all others spent dreaming them up as phantoms or snakes with fangs. I always used to think romanticism was a thing meant for foolish little girls, fated to die most likely from a manic fixation of the unsatiated heart or some other equally ostensible death from which I, stubborn headed and bitter as I can be, couldn't possibly ever suffer from. But I, as is most often the case when it comes to things like love or fate or life in and of itself, was wrong. So terribly, wonderfully wrong.