Polkadot

Why are all the people in charge so FUVKIN dumb!

Bring the nerds back!

“Dear to me is sleep: still more, being made of stone, While pain and guilt still linger here below, Blindness and numbness--these please me alone; Then do not wake me, keep your voices low.” ― Michelangelo Buonarroti

Rereading Shakespeare's ... Rediscovering my love for tragedies, and that too with my favorite.. When i was in highschool i used to think why would someone read Shakespeare willingly ... When I first read hamlet and loved it with all my heart , I thought how could someone not ..♥️

I might look so quiet, but in my head there's this daily vlog that I'm recording for my imaginary YouTube channel .

Happy Easter— where Jesus rose… and we’re just trying to rise before 12pm. ❤️

It smells like yesterday’s air. Like clothes that were never worn outside. Like ideas that stayed in your head too long and went stale before they ever touched the world. It’s subtle. Almost polite. It doesn’t interrupt anyone. And that’s the worst part—you can live with it. You can wake up, breathe it in, and not even notice you’ve adjusted to it. You can call it “who you are” instead of what it became. You can mistake familiarity for identity. But sometimes, in a quiet moment, it shifts. Just slightly. And you catch it again—that faint, almost-sour trace of everything you didn’t become. Not accusing. Not even sad. Just there. Waiting, like it never really left.

You never knew 9 year old me still has the biggest crush on Dylan O’Brien

I start my bullshit-talkin saying you can train my fear out of me but im just like a cur. I bite when i feel a little scared

Have you ever felt like you're getting your finger into your mouth and forcing words out?

It doesn’t hit slowly. It hits all at once—mid-sentence, mid-breath, mid-pretending-you-don’t-care. You hear yourself say it, “I’m not doing this because you told me to… I just feel bad for you.” And for a second, it sounds noble. Kind. Like you chose this. But then something cracks. Because you recognize the pattern— not in them, in you. The waiting. The softening. The way your “choice” always seems to follow their absence, their silence, their half-effort. Like you’re not deciding… you’re reacting. And suddenly it feels smaller than you thought. Not kindness. Not mercy. Just… habit. Like a dog that convinces itself it wants to run— that the sprint, the panting, the returning is its own idea. Until one moment, it notices: The throw was never yours. The game was never yours. And still— you go. Not because you were told. Not even because you care that much anymore. But because stopping feels unfamiliar. Because standing still feels like losing purpose. And that’s when it lands—sharp, quiet, almost embarrassing: You didn’t choose this. You just never learned what else to do. #throwsfromnotes

being a woman is hard— you wake up wanting to buy something,slap someone, lose weight, and eat something sweet. all before breakfast, obviously. it’s a very balanced lifestyle— equal parts self-improvement and mild chaos. because nothing says stability like scrolling for things you don’t need, getting irritated over things you can’t say, promising discipline by tomorrow, and rewarding yourself today anyway. it’s not contradiction, really— it’s just efficiency.

Master the art of disappearing in front of people

it’s almost funny, in a quiet way— how she can break and still look put together like nothing ever touched her. the same face as her mother, just a little better at hiding it.

one could say a cup stops being a cup when it is never lifted, never needed— left untouched, it forgets its own purpose. and still, i choose the quiet suffocation of stillness over the risk of being held. because to be held is to trust, and to trust is to balance on someone else’s certainty. i would rather sit in the dark of a cabinet, wrapped in dust and doubt, questioning if i was ever meant to matter— than feel the sudden slip, the careless fingers, the moment i am dropped not because i was weak, but because someone else did not care enough to hold me steady.

no term has ever described how i feel better than "emotional motion sickness"

The intimacy between me and cold floors

i literally have to romanticize almost everything or else i get sad

i just want to smoke a joint and rot in my bed all day is that too much to ask ?