#mickey wright starter.

[bllyaches]

      slowly, mickey breathes out, a trail of smoke pooling out of parted petals. the feeling flooding her chest made her feel euphoric. it was like all the stress stopped weighing her down. her limbs felt heavy, but good. this was how she should always feel, she thought. passing the joint back to the boy next to her, her head falls back against the shelf of books behind her. sure, the smoke may stain the pages and linger there for weeks to come, but no one ever came back there anyway. “my dad’s probably going to send someone to look for me soon,” she started. “how long do you think it’ll take for them to find us back here?”

@sinspires / based.

[bllyaches]

mickey was a melancholy girl in a world full of fake smiles, designers bags and champagne wishes. hell, she was even named after a happy mouse. mickey didn’t feel like she belonged----- she KNEW she didn’t belong in this upper eastside world. yet, she played the part to keep her inheritance and support her lavish lifestyle. it was the little things that kept her sane. it was writing a new play, having brunch at cafe, her suite at the five star hotel she lived. mickey even got to escape with the other person’s lips pressed to the pulse point in her neck while a charity gala rages on outside the coat room. “you know,” she speaks up. “my father’s speech should be starting soon. he’ll want me there. we should probably stop.” her monotone voice cuts through the silence. “this whole thing feels fake.... frivolous, almost. don’t you think?” she had a way with making intimate moments not-so intimate at a drop of a hat. 

@refcrmist

[bllyaches]

— * about: she’s a socialite turned wannabe playwright ! open to anyone !

      blood shot hues are hidden by white vintage chanel sunnies perched on the bridge of her nose as afternoon sunlight pours in to the hotel restaurant. it was the most picturesque way to begin her day: coffee, toast, a notepad to jot down her thoughts and absolutely NO interruptions. the only time she wished to be disturbed is if someone asked if she wanted a refill ( although, that’s a given, isn’t it ? ) or if arthur miller came back from the dead. mickey raised her white coffee mug to her lips, careful not to stain it red from her lipstick, and let out a content sigh. it was finally going to be a good day—- an INSPIRING day, she thought. everything was going perfectly until the sound of a chair being scraped backwards brought her thoughts to a screeching halt. she knew she should have asked for the extra chair to be taken away the moment she set down. “excuse me,” she begins with her classic monotone voice. “i don’t believe i asked for a table for two.”

[bllyaches]

— * open to anyone !

      blood shot hues are hidden by white vintage chanel sunnies perched on the bridge of her nose as afternoon sunlight pours in to the hotel restaurant. it was the picturesque way to begin her day: coffee, toast, a notepad to jot down her thoughts and absolutely NO interruptions. the only time she wished to be disturbed is if someone asked if she wanted a refill ( although, that’s a given, isn’t it ? ) or if arthur miller came back from the dead. mickey raised her white coffee mug to her lips, careful not to stain it red from her lipstick, and let out a content sigh. it was finally going to be a good day---- an INSPIRING day, she thought. everything was going perfectly until the sound of a chair being scraped backwards brought her thoughts to a screeching halt. she knew she should have asked for the extra chair to be taken away the moment she set down. “excuse me,” she begins with her classic monotone voice. “i don’t believe i asked for a table for two.”