(Source: permissiongranted, via ettabishop)
Let’s call it social hemophilia.
Someone touches me and I bleed for days.I’ve been carrying around names of old love in my skin like I’m wet cement
and I can’t seem to scratch off the reasons why we’re all in such a rush
to find someone who will carve u + me 4ever into their throats.…
Waugh, one of my favorite misanthropic bastards in literary history, put a lot of effort into putting as much distance between himself & the rest of humanity as possible. To that end, he went to the trouble of printing up these all-purpose “Mr. Evelyn Waugh is not interested in your petty invitations and cordially invites you to fuck off” cards, which he would hand out to people who made demands on him (e.g. aspiring writers seeking critiques of their manuscripts, friends requesting his presence at dinner parties, his children asking him to stop publicly referring to them as “physically inept, monotonous, defective adults who fill me with depression”)
(via trumpetstrumpet)