There is not a thing about you that’s wrong. You’re the right shape, the right size, the right person. You always have been, always will be beautiful.
Try to worry a little less about the rest, dear. Things will come together for you. Trust me.
My friends are truly beautiful.
This is seriously fucking ahhhhh-mazing. Gorgeous.
I want it on my body. Now.
I know a girl who just looks at her face in the medicine cabinet mirror and never looks below her shoulders, and she’s four or five hundred pounds but she doesn’t see all that, she just sees a beautiful face and therefore she thinks she’s a beauty. And therefore, I think she’s a beauty, too, because I usually accept people on the basis of their self-images, because their self-images have more to do with the way they think than their objective-images do.
The most beautiful thing in Tokyo is McDonald’s. The most beautiful thing in Stockholm is McDonald’s. The most beautiful thing in Florence is McDonald’s. Peking and Moscow don’t have anything beautiful yet.
I love every single thing about her sleeve. Want?
You know, I never could figure out if you were gorgeous despite your awkwardness, or if your awkwardness aided to your attractiveness, you know, like a girl-next-door sorta way.
Perhaps it’s both?
My friend, Chantel
I’m not entirely sure how this should be taken. I’m going to roll with it, though.