Today is kinda like Friday except better because I get snuggles. 

Today is kinda like Friday except better because I get snuggles. 

The light between my legs makes the shape of a heart.
(click high res to see)
My work here is done. *curtsies*

The light between my legs makes the shape of a heart.

(click high res to see)

My work here is done. *curtsies*

(Source: herdirtylittleheart)

"I made mistakes back then…. I’ll never do it again…"

camdamage: ”NEXT GIRL”model: Cam Damage video: Kevin Sweeney

(Source: zero-patch)

"But if you’re not sick then why aren’t you at work?" I asked, trying not to sound too curious. He was lying on the couch.
"It’s a mental health day, sometimes you need one," my Dad said without looking away from his book. "You’ll understand when you’re in High School."
I was 8 at the time, in Madame Tremblay’s class, and I had just figured out that if you told the teacher your tummy hurt and went to the washroom and told her when you returned that you’d been sick she would send you to the office,no questions asked.
And the office would call your Mother. No questions asked.
And your Mother would be worried of course and say she’d be right there to pick you up. No questions asked. 
And the reason I had discovered this is because one day earlier that year I really was sick, that really did happen. And I was shocked that nobody second-guessed me. And months later when I was sitting in class wishing and praying for a way out it occurred to me that I could do it again, fake the whole thing,
and it would work.
And it did. You see I was a “Good Girl”. I had good grades and was quiet in school and I never rocked the boat and I got along well with everyone and that’s one of the benefits of being a Good Girl; no one really suspects it. 
And so I learned to save it as the ace in my back pocket for when I felt like “if I have to spend another second breathing the same air as these assholes I am going to die” and it saved me from dying, I’m pretty sure. 
You see, it’s hard to be a kid, and everyone forgets that and they wish they could trade places and I never would because IT’S HARD TO BE A KID don’t you remember? 
You can’t control anything, you don’t get to make any of the choices, and those other kids are MEAN and they don’t know you’re a mermaid or a goddess or a mother fucking phoenix they can’t get past your crooked teeth or your hand-me-down sneakers or the fact that you just didn’t do things the same as everybody else. It’s hard to be there.
I didn’t do it too often, that would arouse suspicion, but once every few months I’d feel like the other kids were eating me alive and I’d flee…
The act changed as I got older, but it never took me long to figure out at each stage which approach was most effective. When I was about 11 I started to say stomach cramps instead. My Mother would exchange knowing glances with the secretary assuming it was a sign of puberty approaching. 
In high school the easiest exit was to cite “personal problems” as you looked at your feet and mumbled “some….stuff… going on at home”. Nobody wanted to know details they just wanted you to go so they could stop feeling awkward. It was perfect. 
And it took 32 years to finally get to a place in my life where if I need a day off I can just take one without having to lie, or rely on elaborate theatrics.
Ta da.

"But if you’re not sick then why aren’t you at work?" I asked, trying not to sound too curious. He was lying on the couch.

"It’s a mental health day, sometimes you need one," my Dad said without looking away from his book. "You’ll understand when you’re in High School."

I was 8 at the time, in Madame Tremblay’s class, and I had just figured out that if you told the teacher your tummy hurt and went to the washroom and told her when you returned that you’d been sick she would send you to the office,no questions asked.

And the office would call your Mother. No questions asked.

And your Mother would be worried of course and say she’d be right there to pick you up. No questions asked. 

And the reason I had discovered this is because one day earlier that year I really was sick, that really did happen. And I was shocked that nobody second-guessed me. And months later when I was sitting in class wishing and praying for a way out it occurred to me that I could do it again, fake the whole thing,

and it would work.

And it did. You see I was a “Good Girl”. I had good grades and was quiet in school and I never rocked the boat and I got along well with everyone and that’s one of the benefits of being a Good Girl; no one really suspects it. 

And so I learned to save it as the ace in my back pocket for when I felt like “if I have to spend another second breathing the same air as these assholes I am going to die” and it saved me from dying, I’m pretty sure. 

You see, it’s hard to be a kid, and everyone forgets that and they wish they could trade places and I never would because IT’S HARD TO BE A KID don’t you remember? 

You can’t control anything, you don’t get to make any of the choices, and those other kids are MEAN and they don’t know you’re a mermaid or a goddess or a mother fucking phoenix they can’t get past your crooked teeth or your hand-me-down sneakers or the fact that you just didn’t do things the same as everybody else. It’s hard to be there.

I didn’t do it too often, that would arouse suspicion, but once every few months I’d feel like the other kids were eating me alive and I’d flee…

The act changed as I got older, but it never took me long to figure out at each stage which approach was most effective. When I was about 11 I started to say stomach cramps instead. My Mother would exchange knowing glances with the secretary assuming it was a sign of puberty approaching. 

In high school the easiest exit was to cite “personal problems” as you looked at your feet and mumbled “some….stuff… going on at home”. Nobody wanted to know details they just wanted you to go so they could stop feeling awkward. It was perfect. 

And it took 32 years to finally get to a place in my life where if I need a day off I can just take one without having to lie, or rely on elaborate theatrics.

Ta da.

What dreams are made of. <3

splicepicturesx: Stoya in the shower (by splice pictures)

What dreams are made of. <3

splicepicturesx: Stoya in the shower (by splice pictures)

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