You keep on telling me these pretty little lies...
I do stupid, impulsive things.
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
My friend says I'm like Mr. Rochester from Jane Eyre. Because when a certain someone tells me he's going to leave, I do stupid, impulsive things like grab his hand without even thinking. And then realize, What the fuck, Raka, are you holding his hand?? and then get way too petrified to see how he reacts. And then throw down his hand.
Stupid.
Moving on.
I'm not allowed to like anybody. It's not okay. I should stop. Because it never turns out well.
Auditions for Grease are like, super soon. And I am craaaaaaaazy excited. I hope I get Rizzo, because all my fake whorishness in the real world should pay off on stage, right? Things would get awkward, though, if a certain someone was my Kenickie. Which I'm sure he won't be. I'm sure. He can't sing. Or dance. Or be generally badass the way a Kenickie would need to be. Good. This is good.
How are you all?
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
My friend says I'm like Mr. Rochester from Jane Eyre. Because when a certain someone tells me he's going to leave, I do stupid, impulsive things like grab his hand without even thinking. And then realize, What the fuck, Raka, are you holding his hand?? and then get way too petrified to see how he reacts. And then throw down his hand.
Stupid.
Moving on.
I'm not allowed to like anybody. It's not okay. I should stop. Because it never turns out well.
Auditions for Grease are like, super soon. And I am craaaaaaaazy excited. I hope I get Rizzo, because all my fake whorishness in the real world should pay off on stage, right? Things would get awkward, though, if a certain someone was my Kenickie. Which I'm sure he won't be. I'm sure. He can't sing. Or dance. Or be generally badass the way a Kenickie would need to be. Good. This is good.
How are you all?