Self-proclaimed writer and singer.
Others-proclaimed cynical bitch.
22 years old, more jaded than I should be.
Feminist, intellectualist, agnostic.
SuperWhoLockian, Loki fangirl.
A little pretentious.
A little hypocritical.
A little condescending.
You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.
For those of you that are unfamiliar with the game, “figments” are these little translucent, brightly-colored images floating around every level. Sounds easy enough to find, right? The fact that I’m only missing one would only be mildly irritating, if it weren’t for one thing.
I’m on Milla’s Dance Party.
Milla’s Dance Party looks like this:
Like finding a needle in an acid-fueled technicolor haystack.
I’m sarcastic. I admit it because I have no choice. My sense of humor, my personality - nay, the very core of my being - is absolutely marinating in it.
Many people mistake this for being mean when it’s not intended as such. There is no bad mojo or cruelty behind the words. They’re jokes. I’m not trying to hurt your feelings, though I can’t say I’m going out of my way to spare them either.
This week, however…
Oh ho hooooo boy, this week…
I’m starting up my third day of nicotine-free-ness. You know what that means? It’s not sarcasm anymore, sweetheart. It’s pure, seething, unbridled hatred for stupidity and anything that goes along with it.
People I usually find barely-tolerable will be torn to shreds in the next couple of weeks. Even my friends are walking on egg shells, so the people I don’t really even like don’t stand a chance. Basically,