i like to draw on my bed, on my sheets, on my skin, on your skin. my mind seems to function at its best through visualizations, as it appeals to my disgustingly good sense of aesthetics. i drown in my own imagination...often creating fantasies that are self-serving and locked in unconventionally fucked up romantic ideals. in my reality, the simple gestures of true kindness make me happiest. my demeanor is generally shy and modest. my true manner is fiendish and perverse. compliments are a no no, they make me intensely uncomfortable. i suffer from a classic case of melancholia, which i've found the only known cures to be: dancing in the grass barefoot while seu jorge sings bowie songs, the feel of a salty ocean breeze between my toes, kisses on my forehead, and waking up late sunday mornings to sunshine and a beautiful face against my cheek.
nice teeth, cutie-pie noses, beards(yes, beards!), and subtle joyous laughter catch my attention every time. boys who make me mix cds/tapes and can pull off wearing scarves (without looking like a hipster) are good in my book. nerds of the charming variety make my heart flutter.
