I'm Jess, but I don't much think a name can define you.
I love everything but I like lots of things. I like pills and flashing lights and rainbows and unicorns and blood and bruises and whiskey kisses and bites and thrashing bass and ecstasy-laced monsters. I find most people to be lovely twats, but that's often not a bad thing. Ink and piercings and overexposed bones and cigarettes and guitarists and fishnets and flannel shirts are sex incarnate. I don't wear enough clothes and bleach my hair too much, I don't eat often and won't sleep until I'm dead, I wear far too much eyemakeup and make ridiculous decisions. Regrets are a waste of brain matter. Floral, vintage tea sets, velvet, lace, menthols, vanilla, vinyl records, polaroids, typewriters, witty postcards, bustiers, candyfloss, tutus, glitter rain, hair bows, kawaii, sex fiends, chiffon, bones, Hello Kitty, leather, studs, pearls, spliff, acidwash, fairybread, swing sets, biceps, hazel eyes, boobs, daisy chains, Barbie, hooping, ventures into the dark, corsets, Skins, pink, diamante encrusted anything. Audrey Kitching, Charlotte Free, Kaya Schodelario, Cassie Ainsworth and Taylor Momsen are perfect and oh wow, but fuck you. I waste my life living and drifting and doing as I please. I almost always wear heels bigger than your boyfriend's dick. I think I'm falling in love and that absolutely terrifies me. I miss your cat.