"In the 1920s, Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald careered through New York City and Great Neck, Paris and the South of France, leaving in their wake a trail of splintered Champagne glasses and glittering bons mots. Their tragic, slow-motion falls — she to madness and a series of mental institutions, he to alcohol and an indifferent public — seemed inevitable, and drawn from the pages of one of his novels. She was reckless to the point of oddity; he always drank like a professional, collapsing the arc from charming to churlish early on. But theirs was surely one of the most fascinating literary and romantic partnerships, symbiotic to the point of cannibalism"

artificial friendship

your indoctrinated disgust for indoctrinated thought has only
injected your bloodstream with a venomous artificiality

your vexation by false rebellion has only
plunged you into a personality so inauthentic
that even from across the room
I can see that your veins bleed ink

I hope your obliviousness to the threadbare fantasy of what we have only grows with time
so you never realize, as I have, how much of our time has been wasted

"It wasn’t my day. My week. My month. My year. My life. God damn it."

Charles Bukowski, Pulp (via suicide-is-my-father)

(Source: suicide-is-my-father, via wished-id-never-grown-up)

not sure why I was so worried about Barnard’s social aspects because it turns out I CANT EVEN AFFORD IT

my parents graciously made me aware of this while I was on day 2 of admitted students weekend and thoroughly loving the school

but I might opt to graduate in three years to save tuition although I have no idea how to go about doing that

the trilogy continues