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[seizethesparkle]

Saying goodbye to 2016 in style at Hands on House! 🤗🏠😊 #peanut #quinnriley #sparklegirl #handsonhouse #amishcountry

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Chasing daylight... ☀️😊🚲 #peanut #quinnriley #sparklegirl #daylightfading #byebyemrsun

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Lipstick Thief. #peanut #quinnriley #sparklegirl #loveher #lurve #maybeitsmaybelline #maybeitsfrommommyspurse

[scarlet-april]

SEVEN THINGS I WISH MY MOTHER HAD TOLD ME BEFORE I TURNED 18

There’s something romantic about glass panes andwonderwalls.

If glass panes had to be condensed into a single word that would explain how they made me feel. I’d use the word ‘almost’ because glass panes keep you apart at airports and coffee shops. You’re almost on the same flight as them. And they’re going away but you can’t be with them, can you? You can almost taste how good the coffee is but you’re homeless and on the street and you just can’t afford the coffee can you? but that’s okay I almost trusted my wonderwall when they said they’d save me.

When Noel Gallagher wrote Wonderwall in May ’95 my mother was two months pregnant with me and Kinshasa in Zaire was quarantined for its first Ebola outbreak and Louisiana was flooded and New Orleans couldnt withstand it anymore and the world sank deeper and deeper into a quagmire of despair and apocalyptic rage while Noel Gallagher probably sat on his living room floor and wrote the song that would keep me up all night nineteen years later

Thinking about all those things my mother never really told me thinking about why I hated every fucking nerve end in my body thinking about why I wasn’t good enough who was I trying to kid? Thinking were twenty insulin pills good enough to reduce my blood into salt and water wondering how long before poetry could be reduced to that one simple sentence when would I be dead.

“Your wonderwall is an imaginary friend who is supposed to save you from yourself” Noel says. I googled it last night for memory failed to serve me right because every once and again when I go into self mutilation mode my wonderwall ceases to exist anymore every once in a while when I try to passive aggressively kill myself I term it a “phase” that’s what my mother calls them. phases like my emo phase when I was 12 and wanted nothing in life more that goth make up and black clothes.

But how is trying to kill myself a phase mother how is doing a bangup job at life a span of time you so convincingly told me constructed to hold all of me in in compartments fit in the social anxiety right next to the depression and the bipolar goes in next to the Xanax and Prozac and the silences this family so proudly upheld made me construe that this wasn’t a family anymore this was a warzone you and I were at a state of war and my wonderwall was AWOL my warhead was seething rage directed towards society for reducing me into an archetype MTV teenager sans the mac and cheese because we didn’t eat dinner. we ate silences. because what’s more nourishing to a 14 year than closed doors and fitful crying on bathroom floors I felt like the inside of a bleach bottle just because the bleach doesn’t eat away at the plastic doesn’t mean the plastic inside is fine because then again, who ever cut up a bleach bottle?

So here are the seven things I wish my mother had told me before I turned 18:

1.Take off your make up before you go to bed. the mascara is going to paint itself all over your face as you lay crying in the dark biting into your pillow hoping no one ever hears you cry, you don’t deserve to look like a corpse when you wake up. Wipe off that lipstick and moisturize, hydrate, exfoliate. Stand in the shower for an hour, until the skin on your back begins to scald, wash yourself clean because your life is not a montage and loving yourself won’t come so honey easy so please, please go easy on yourself.

2. Your body is NOT a sarcophagus. Nobody is entitled to bury their remains in the pit of your being because you are not dead and they are not a fucking mummy. Find yourself another grave kid, because this grave is growing flowers and will some day climb out, zombie apocalypse style and walk into the sunset swinging a machete to fight everyone who put her there.

3. Write, write like you’re the love child of Sylvia Plath andKurt Vonnegut. Write like every word you say matters, write like this world is your Bell Jar and you are a propeller and make sure you break that bell jar every fucking day because bell jars are meant to hold vacuum and Victorian era watches not girls with Medusa hair.

4. You are not stupid for liking Starbucks, and wearing make up. You are not stupid for knowing who Reem Acraand Elie Saab are. But you are stupid if you deny yourself the right to like whatever the fuck you want to like. Your ipod is not a judgemental twat like you and doesn’t really care if you listen to Nicki Minaj or U2. You are well read for a kid, but please, reading Noam Chomsky at 15 doesn’t make you a special snowflake It just means you know about Palestinian politics now and should try doing something about it.

5. ROMANTICIZE THE FUCK OUT OF YOUR SELF. You are a queen. You are brilliant. you are the tabasco sauce on his nachos that will set his face on fire. You are a dragon princess. you are not a stereotype walking out of a young adult novel. You are more than what he tells you. You are more that what your grades tell you. You are the curve of infinity as it dives, only to keep spiralling the palindrome in search for something more perhaps.

6. He doesn’t love you and that’s okay, but please learn how to pick yourself up after you’ve been sat on the bathroom floor for three hours wondering if you can be happy again. Put that war paint on and sling the high heels. Drink yourself blind and throw up in a bathroom stall. But always come back home and never sleep in party clothes.

7. One day you’re going to be 19 and life will make no sense. You’ll hate yourself, and none of the six things will be enough to stop you from mutilating again. You will fall in love again. You, will learn to write again. You will go to bed in party clothes and make up and wake up hating yourself. You won’t romanticize yourself anymore. You will have readSusan Faludi and Simone de Beauvoir and will want to kill yourself. That’s when you’re supposed to read it all again.