#Bougie Fucking Fabulous

[angelitam]

The Private Blend Collection de Tom Ford

Des bougies pour la maison avec The Private Blend Collection de Tom Ford. The Private Blend Collection de Tom Ford Les fragrances Tom Ford pour la maison. The Private Blend Collection de Tom Ford Bougie Fucking Fabulous de Tom Ford : un mélange enivrant de cuir, de tonka et de fleurs. La sauge sclarée vibrante et la lavande fraîche attirent l’attention avec des préliminaires aromatiques.…

[tandaforever]

Put three names & a number ask:

Timmy, Armie, Luca

5. go on a six hour road trip with (no car radio, you choose who drives), sit next to on a six hour plane flight, sit across from on a six hour train journey

I love this, thank you!! 😊

Six hour road trip with (No car radio, you choose who drives)

Armie, hands down. Since I can't drive (which he'd give me crap for never learning but would secretly adore the idea of driving the whole way), it would be him. I feel 6 hours of just talking or not talking with the man, getting roadside junk food (or fruit if he's craving lol) and making frequent stops to take pics of random vistas would be transformative. And ya know, the talking bit, within the safety and confines of the car, would be the best part. I'd go into 'bro, what's up' mode maybe, but all sincere and shit. Sigh. I think we have a lot in common too, so maybe it'd be good for me on a personal level and not just a charmie level.

Sit next to on a six hour plane flight

Luca. Business Class. Who caves and asks the flight attendant for a glass of champagne first? 🍾 Okay l have no idea if that's even a thing but being bougie with Luca sounds fucking fabulous.

Which leaves..

Sit across from on a six hour train ride

Timmy, my boy, the adventures we'd get into.

I just did a whole train trip across Europe (6 train rides in total) and boy, would Timmy love taking the train. He's a nervous flyer so the train just makes sense. It's a super calm way to travel (until u have to get off and hustle if it's not the last stop lol). He'd probably travel the length of the train with me to find the dining car just to get some snackies, help me with my luggage cuz those racks are hella high, and play cards and listen to music with me. We'd whisper our conversations at first until Timmy bursts out laughing and annoys everyone around him (I was so annoyed with ppl who'd laugh on the train 😅). He'd fall asleep and I'd look out the window. 😌

[bottomvalerius]

Ohh question!! How would Neeja and Imelda feel about Xiomara? You said in that au she loves in Prakra w Sam, right?

Oh shitttt I was just thinking of Problem Child 2.0!!! Forgive how rambly this got I smoked a bowl earlier lmao 😭😭

I think they would both initially be VERY nervous/freaked out as they’ve seen Sam dive head first into Life Changing choices (i.e. getting married LMAO) without considering himself/his limits/the consequences of his actions

By that point, they would have both warmed up to and liked Donna but would still be like “……. You can’t. Have this old man’s baby whAT” 😭😭😭 but ultimately Xiomara is born and neither of them can quite resist how adorable she is lmao

Imee is the ULTIMATE bougie tita like. She would be in her PRIIIMEE!! Constantly dressing her up. Constantly taking her out. 110% lets her sip on her drinks at parties lmao She really just thrives in the role. I can see her being very mother-heny with Donna, but Imee in general is very protective of them. While she was scared at first, she is ultimately happy that at least it’s them who’s having Sam’s kid lol

Neeja is again much more reserved at first and primarily is feeling Sam out, making sure he isn’t going to dip on THIS family (honestly not sure she would EVER forgive him for a abandoning not only his kid but Don Don LMAO) That’s her primary fear; one day Sam will just leave, and it’s not like he doesn’t have a precedent for it (On the aide: Sam would never LOL by that age he’s not built for the emotional damage of doing that AT ALL)

BUT once she starts realizing Sam is enjoying himself and really easing into fatherhood (god I can go on a whole rant on Sam’s fears of parenthood stemming from being forced into a motherly role his entire adolescence and the damage it left on him, when in reality he would have loved being a father and father figure but. I cannot articulate my thoughts well LOLL), the Auntie-fication beam strikes lmfao Not as doting as Imee (it’s just not her way of expressing affection), but a very close confidant for Xiomara, especially when Sam and Donna fight.

I can see Xiomara not really understanding why Sam chose to be in her life or why he stays by Donna’s side (and vice versa: she doesn’t get why Donna would choose to have her knowing she was Sam’s etc etc), and Neeja is the closest person who can try and really explain her complicated ass dad lmao

TLDR:

Imee: “Master this is going to be your 1.5th divorce and you can’t fuck up ANOTHER kid—look at your brother” -> “Xiomara, quick, while Donna isn’t looking you can take a sip of my drink. That Gucci belt looks fabulous by the way, I was so right about the leather choice”

Neeja: “I will kill you if you leave. I will hunt you down and kill you. Dip now before you fuck this up.” -> “Xiomara, I love your father to death, but he’s the most foolish man I know. But he loves you in a way I didn’t think was possible, and you may be the only good thing he’s ever helped do. 🤷🏻‍♀️🤷🏻‍♀️”

[lettersfromleslie]

SUMMER HEAT / EMPTY STREETS / JUSTICE NOR PEACE IN SIGHT / BUT STEP RIGHT THIS WAY FOR THE ONLY SHOW IN TOWN

Hello again from the belly of the beast!

It’s been a weird, hot, bittersweet summer. The new abnormal has made itself at home, the phases of the ‘rona have been swimming by, and one way or another life’s gone on living… Just wanted to put down a quickish sketch of what that’s been like in our lovable ol meatgrinder N.Y.C.

The lil lady and I spent the three months from mid-March to June in lockdown. I talked about all that plenty in my last post. It was a very surreal and foggy phase for us and looking back it’s hard to form a clear picture of what we did or how we felt. I think that fogginess has a lot to do with the mood swings, the phases of the news cycle, the ever-evolving picture we had of the world and our place in it�� I kept my sanity by working on the album. It was good to have a mission in that. It was good too that I’d done the crowdfund and people had already paid for the damn thing, which kept me from slacking off too much. When I wrote my last post on May 2nd I was feeling quite blocked-up and discouraged because I wasn’t getting my takes, but then towards the end of May things started falling into place and before I knew it I had the whole album on tape. And whaddaya know, I think it’s a pretty good one! Probably the best one I’ve done. It was the first time I deliberately set out to write and deliver an album on a schedule, setting my dates without having the material in place, and I think that led to it being a very tight, compact statement. Of course the songs wound up being a bit more introspective and quarantine-y than planned, but that’s just how she goes, eh?

I wrapped up recording work around the beginning of June. That coincided with the period that Ariel and I started really venturing out again - starting on May 29th when we first joined the BLM protests against police brutality. I have to admit it doesn’t come naturally to me to talk about the protests online - not because it’s not important, but because I’m unsure if my voice would be as meaningful or articulate as the voices of those who are speaking from a lifetime of experience. Everyone’s feeds are already flooded with this stuff, and being a vaguely foreign white boy with an escapist bent there seems so little use in me going up and taking the mic. I'd just be repeating what I'd had to learn from others.

But that said - taking part in the protests was absolutely eye-opening. The energy and anger and emotion were relentless, and the demands for fairness and justice were so obvious, so simple to understand, and just so plainly the right thing to do. Which made it all the more incredible that it didn’t seem to affect those we were protesting in the slightest. I naively thought that the NYPD would at the very least be eager to put it out there that they, too, were against the indiscriminate killing of unarmed people, black or otherwise. I thought they’d take a knee with us. Not out of the goodness of their hearts, necessarily - but still, maybe just for the sake of PR. Intead we got to watch them go out of their way to perform live demonstrations of what we were protesting against over and over again… That’s to say my skinny white ass got a real crash-course in the harsh realities. We got kettled, intimidated with helicopters, we watched people get rounded up and beaten with batons for violating the 8PM curfew, we were there when that cop car rammed into a group of protesters on Flatbush Avenue… We also saw the looting, and the cop cars on fire, and the trash fires all along Broadway and on Union Square.

What can I say about it? It was fucked. It’s fucked. To be treated as an enemy by the police for protesting police violence. What else to assume than that they were taking the side of violence? They acted more like heavily-armed counter-protesters than peacekeepers. And of course it all led me to examine my own life and the advantages I’ve had. If you’ve been following me over the years you know I’ve always made a point of organizing my life in such a way that I have room to kinda detach from modern life and dream. And I used to think everyone could just do that. I was always proselytizing about it when I was a kid. “Just go live it!” All the while unthinkingly accepting the free passes that society would give me. Playing the free-spirited ragamuffin, simply expecting the world to recognize me in my role - and the world did! - while in a different body I wouldn’t have been recognized. That’s clear enough. So what kind of hypocrite would I be if I wasn’t out shouting for the same freedoms for my fellow humans? It’s something of a karmic debt at this point.


While all this was going on I also had to be dealing with my money situation, which was getting pretty bad. For reasons you can imagine I wasn’t in a place where I could apply for unemployment or any other kind of government assistance. My album crowdfund, the livestreams, and a little help from family and friends had seen me through the worst of the lockdown, but by the end of June I really had to start busking again. Sink or swim.

So, back to old Wash Square. That park has been through some phases in 2020, lemme tell you. It started out seriously mad. When I first started busking again the protests were still going full blast. March after march would weave in and out of the park, speeches were held, kneel-ins, sit-ins, you name it. I’d play the lulls. Around mid-July that righteous energy started making way for some seriously weird craziness. The NYPD had by this point stopped enforcing any of the usual small stuff and the Weird Ones had taken note. A squatter who called himself Jesus built a permanent home for himself and his followers in the fountain. Noise complaints were a thing of the past. Fights and brawls galore. Drugs, nudity, raves, and a riotous fuckitall feeling in the air, masks off, hands on, summer of mad recklessness. Me and my quarantine brain weren’t quite equipped to join the fray. I just kinda nervously skitted around the edges of it, yodeling here and there. Bit absent I was, maybe, but how can you go carefree gonzo when doing so means constantly risking killing someone’s granny by accident? I kept my social distance. There were some bad encounters. Bottles thrown at me while playing. Got assualted by some nut outside the W4st subway station, yanking me by the hair, punching me in the noggin. It was clear to anyone out there that the police had thrown their hands up at the situation and were letting people find out what life was like without them. As far as I could make out this unofficial police strike emboldened both the bad guys and the protesters without getting the cops anything. They might’ve been hoping the resident bougies would put their foot down one way or another, bark up the food chain some, but forget about it. There wasn’t much backlash or pushback from these upstanding, tax-paying pillars of society - they all just skipped town and headed for greener pastures. This mass exodus of wealth which had seemed temporary back in April started really accelerating around this point and by now the absence has started to feel permanent. If there’s any force of NIMBYism left in the Village I haven’t seen it. Those who have stayed on seem to have adopted a live-and-let-die approach. Aside from the fairy-lighted open-air restaurant patios with their potted plants and plexiglass dividers the streets belong to the people again, for better or for worse.

Personally, I don’t mind at all. Why should I? The money’s tough, but hell. I’ve always been broke. I’ve spent all my seven years in this city staring up at the rungless ladder which is Manhattan. If it can stop being a playground for the rich, it might become a place where I could actually hope to live someday.

Anyway, the last month has seen a sort of stabilization of the status quo. Some of the park regulars are back. R&B Lee, who used to be stuck down underground in the W4st subway station, has made a permanent place for himself and his giant PA on the western corner of the fountain. Jimmy the drummer is out all the time with a revolving cast of players. There are DJ sets on weekends and they get loud as all hell. So music’s back, but it’s a different world, and a much louder one. I’ve taken to playing in the small circle of benches on the western side of the park. There’s really not much space for unamplified music; the regular acoustic jam sessions have moved to other, more private locations and Colin Huggins, the park’s much-beloved pianist-in-residence, has more or less given up for the time being. Johan the living statue is out again much of the time. The portrait artists and street art sellers and fortune tellers are back, but the park poets are still in absence, probably conferring with their muses. Check out this article by Charlie Crespo with photos of some of the characters who are out and about.

Meanwhile the atmosphere out there is weird, anarchic, and sorta wonderful if you’re into that sort of thing. I guess I am. You won’t get bored hanging out on Washington Square in the summer of 2020, that’s for sure. Different threads of activism and action going on in every corner, friendships forged, love-ins, creativity, occasional bad chaos and ill energy, along with a good helping of just regular old hedonism in radical trappings. For a while there were great crowds of activist kids sleeping on the lawns and yakking all night about the revolution… The cops put a stop to that one, started clearing everyone out of the park again at midnight. Honestly a lot of it feels like what I always imagined the sixties might’ve been like. I’ve often looked at it a wee bit wistfully wishing I could be twenty again for it, with a head full of hot air and a fabulous tolerance for risk, instead of with bills to pay, dwindling resources, and a partner & a cat to look after. Oh, but I’ll be alright.

To everyone who’s still in NYC and has been worried about going out in public: if your health & conscience permit, come to the park sometime & let me sing a song for ya. I mean, do it responsibly - don that mask, bring your hand sanitizer, observe that distance - but New Yorkers have been knocking it out of the park when it comes to beating the virus, and that means the risks are lower and going out is almost as safe as it used to be. The park has plenty of room to socially distance. No one will bother you about it if you bring a picnic blanket and a bottle of something. The subway is safer to travel on than you might expect. The nights are hot and humid and saturated with all the great unknown we’re traveling through together.

And as far as I can make out, it’s the only show in town!

[zuckernhase]

I deserve a drink for the amount of the energy I invest into people who don’t fucking deserve it. 🤡✨ . . . . . #boucherie #boucherienyc #cocktail #mimosa #alcohol #drink #drinks #vodka #wine #whiskey #french #france #paris #unapologetic #empath #haters #vintage #retro #fabulous #luxury #lux #bougie #scorpio #artist #unique #haul #treatyoself #aesthetics #aesthetic #latergram https://www.instagram.com/p/CDh1ESIjc-k/?igshid=11extay3461sf

[tshirtfashiontrend]

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Posting videos of herself Back the fuck up tinsel tits today is not the day I will shank you shirt . on social media, Lizzo is seen arriving and checking into the Virgin. Atlantic Upper Class area in full-on bougie fashion, her pink plumage drawing some double-takes as she heads to her flight. (She also carried a teddy-monkey that said, “Privacy please,” though it was hard not to look her way with that fabulous getup.) It may seem an outrageous idea to wear a runway design on a flight Back the fuck up tinsel tits today is not the day I will shank you shirt, hoodie, sweater, longsleeve and ladies t-shirt

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[ronthedon8]

I Could have been in Honor roll student, national honor society member, 3.5 G.P.A in high school, full-ride scholarships everywhere in the U.S, won a state-Championship, mentioned on ESPN multiple times, Won homecoming/Prom King, have fabulous, intelligent, down-to- earth girlfriend, started driving since 9th grade, never got in trouble with the law, never met negative, fuckup people in my life back then and now, never should have stolen from mother, never fought with my sisters, didn't mind my father and his mother passed away, good public speaker, model for magazines, didn't listen to motherfuckers call me ugly, stupid, not good enough, doing whatever the fuck I want to do make my legend in people eyes, not having insecure-obese-gap Tooth-baldheaded-complaining ass mom for a mother, shone(Hoe)ass-bougie-selfish-hurt ass-lame ass excuse for a sister. I'm not religious person so fuck all of that. Honestly. I wish I could have reset button somewhere on this earth so I could have done something about it. Well that's life for you, you can't get what you work. Fuck this world🖕🏾I hope someone see this, and say some really fucking stupid to me so I could snap! If you don't have nothing good to say, or just help me improve myself... DONT SAY MOTHERFUCKING WORD !

[territorializethis]

WEEK 5, ENTRY 2 of 2: Surrealism, reconsidered.

In terms of a surrealist “canon,” a continuum of texts in that tradition that make the kind of interventions that surrealism does (juxtapose reality and unreality, draw attention to the things we casually accept through that juxtaposition, use strategic discomfort to narrative ends, etc...), I began to consider what a good “counter-text” would be for a movie like Belle du Jour... a visual piece that a. traffics in the surreal image, b. considers, in a Foucaultian way, the Transgression of the Limit as an act of self-definition, a becoming.

For the demarcation I wanted to draw between text and counter-text, I could not shake Belle du Jour’s obsession with sexual violence, its exploitativeness, and its gross, squicky implication that “nono.. its cool.. she really WANTED to be violated.” This demarcation led me to my PERFECT counter-text, a surreal watch that does surreal better than the surrealists themselves (I feel COMPLETELY comfortable asserting that. Fight. Me.). I give you, Bryan Fuller’s Hannibal on NBC, 2013-2015.

Hannibal is based on the prequel novel to Silence of the Lambs, entitled Red Dragon. Interestingly, Red Dragon features an primary antagonist serial killer who sexually exploits his victims (the man Hannibal Lecter is to help Will Graham catch), but in adapting this killer to the big screen, Bryan Fuller refused outright to focus on the sexually assaultive aspect. In explanation, he said: “There are frequent examples of exploiting rape as low-hanging fruit to have a canvas of upset for the audience. The reason the rape well is so frequently used is because it’s a horrible thing that is real and that it happens. But because it’s so overexploited, it becomes callous. That’s something I can’t derive entertainment from as an audience member,” and also, “ I find that it’s not necessarily thought-through in the more common crime procedurals. You’re reduced to using shorthand, and I don’t think there can be a shorthand for that violation — it’s an incredibly personal and intimate betrayal of something that should be so positive and healthy. And it’s frequently so thinly explored because you don’t have the real estate in 42 minutes to dig deep into what it is to be a victim of rape.” (Slay, Bryan, you are KING amongst showrunners.)

Underlying his explanation of why it is distasteful to him to exploit assault on the screen is his appraisal that doing so is unnecessary -- assault is not the only, or even the best, or even a good, way to create a “canvas of upset” for the audience -- so what we get with Hannibal is a show about violation in a different way than sexual exploitation of the female body (and holy crap does it showcase violations), without being a vehicle for impressing the audience into the most predatory of audience gazes for a cheap point.

Now, Hannibal as “surreal.” And boy, is it surreal. The juxtaposition of reality and unreality is on FULL display.

SPOILER ALERT, NBC HANNIBAL.

Our main character, Hugh Dancy’s Will Graham, inhabits the positionality of Catherine Deneuve’s in du Jour -- it is he who will transgress limits to “become himself.” If Deneuve in her role explored becoming a sexually expressive woman in a sexually repressive space / culture (though, arguably, presented in the film as becoming a sexually expressive woman in no less exploited of a form), Will Graham’s becomings are two, double, and intertwined -- one is becoming the exact sort of psychopath that he is so good at mentally inhabiting in order to help his employers at the FBI catch them, and one is becoming one who can homosexually commune with one who is like him, with another person who has underwent that first becoming, a becoming-monster. The first becoming is what introduces a lot of the surreal imagery, some pictured above. Graham’s mindscape is inhabited by the specters of those he has killed, or other serial killers who he has empathized with, and it is also inhabited by strange forms, feathered stags, and a collossal man with onyx black skin and giant stag antlers, who periodically raises out of rivers or appears in mirrors or ... in one scene... curls up on the ground while Will claws his way out of his pregnant body. (The reality/unreality dichtomy is on full display, however, with the crime scenes, which are not Graham’s imaginings, but “real events” of the show -- see the “tree” and “eye” tableaus above). The dreams of Belle du Jour that surrealistly show Deneuve, outside of temporal logic, dealing with the symbolic dream-content of her becoming, are present in Hannibal in this way, in Graham’s fever dreams. In fact, they both have a tree-tying vision, as it turns out.

It is this second becoming, the one toward homosexual (or really, pansexual) communion, that is for many the most interesting aspect of the show. Hannibal is a very, very, very gay show, and in a very fascinating way, that has a surrealism of its own, even aside from the visual surrealism. This has to do with the fourth-wall breaking conversation that this show began to have with its audience as the show progressed. Right here on tumblr, a robust community of individuals began to ship (short for relation-ship, or to pair romantically) “Hannigram” and to write mountains of fan fiction of varying levels of explicitivity about them fucking, killing together, both at the same time, etc. Well, the strange occurance that happened is, the show began to enter into active conversation with the Hannigram shippers. It was to the point where the tweeters and tumblrs would coin “Murder Husbands,” and it would appear in the next episode.

This is a very different kind of relationship between reality and unreality, one that arguably would not have been possible in the days of film development and cinema-release debuts.... rather than portraying a relationship between reality and unreality, Hannibal embodies it, conversing with the audience-in-the-Real’s sexual experience of the characters. Will Graham’s becoming-gay is the audience’s becoming-shippers. For a show with only two sex scenes in it, and only one of which with easily distinguishable bodies, I don’t know that I have ever seen a show with more tension of desire written on the faces of the characters, the presentation of which is part of the show’s relationship with its audience. In a word: the camera’s Gaze is aware of Queer Desire. And somehow, the transgression of a norm, a limit, represented by an audience coming to love a MAJOR NETWORK lead-character pairing in a very, very, gay way and have that investment paid off in real-time seems more transgressive than a bougie lady hob-knobbing in brothels with women who have to do it to even eat, Belle du Jour, but maybe that is just me. Speaking of, in terms of the figure of the Woman on this show, there is a lot going on with very complicated characters such as du Maurier, Chiyo, and Reba as important recurring characters and many others who stop in for an episode, but a very important pairing and Becoming that the show showcases is the relationship between Margot Verger and Alana Bloom.

The show got criticism in Season 1 for seemingly trying to push romantic relationships between Bloom’s FBI psychiatrist and both Will and Hannibal, but it was actually Bloom’s actress Caroline Dhavernas and Verger’s, Catherine Isabella, who asked the showrunner Bryan Fuller if they could do a sex scene together. It was in that way that we get one of the most powerful (and surreal) depictions of communion I have ever seen on a screen -- the kaliedoscopic blurring in and out of the two women’s bodies, so that it is not until a minute into the scene that it is even clear whose bodies we are seeing. Margot, an exceedingly wealthy heiress of a pork empire who is exploited brutally by her brother, first-in-line heir apparent, and Bloom, who over the course of the show suffers deeply by her involvement with the Murder Husbands, have a sort of becoming-woman-together in which they become a queered family that is isolated from the self destruction of the serial killers and safe from the controlling hand of Mason Verger. In short... Hannibal contains as a damned side story (that is still longer than du Jour’s runtime) a very comparable becoming to Catherine Denuvue’s in Belle du Jour, only less problematic and arguably more visually impressive.

But back to the film’s surreal imagery, and what that might have to say about the body, and about audience’s relationship to text...

Hannibal has a lot to say about gaze.

In the very first episode, Will Graham kills a serial killer in a police shooting whose last word to him sticks in his head throughout the entire show... “See?” Indeed, Will’s “power”, in the sense that the lead cop in crime procedurals always seems to have some almost extra-sensory kind of power, is to “see” -- the FBI leads Graham to a typically impressive and elaborate murder-tableau crime-scene, and Will “sees” the intention or “design” of the killer almost as if it were his own memory. In this sense, Will is like an art critic -- he “sees” the art, and he “reads” it as a text, “seeing” a phenoumenal world behind the text. Of course, this is exactly what we as audience do as we watch film. If in La Ley del Deseo, Almodovar played with the typical Male Gaze by comparing it to the manipulative and murderous character of Banderas, here, Fuller compares all of us binge-watchers watching violent TV on Netflix in 10 episode chunks to serial killers daydreaming about bloodscapes. Same thing that Fuller, a vegan, does with Hannibal Lecter’s beautiful food presentation by comparing the presentation of human meat to animal meat. Fuller’s Hannibal “sees” with a camera that certainly is a desiring Male Gaze, but a Gaze that contains an implicit critique of the way that that cinematic gaze works... female bodies are present, and fabulous, but not exploited; males and females both are murdered and their bodies transformed, but their bodies are not sexualized; violence is shown, but to critique the way that we see violence, instead of to participate in the traffic of such imagery without self awareness. In many ways, the particular Male Gaze shown on Hannibal is the “sick” Male Gaze, the gaze of the psychopath who would mass murder...

...only to turn that Gaze on us, and say: hey, look how comfortable you are “Putting On” that Gaze, isn’t that the Gaze of most action / horror film?

“See?”

Hannibal uses the cinematic gaze as a mirror to force us to look at the cinematic gaze, and as such, as its critique of our gaze’s “sickness” has me wondering what another kind of Gaze would look like.

[vitamindmemories]

in pc one of my other fav parts was like training, at the training center ha. me and my stage got pretty close i think, or atleast i think we all got to a point where we all respected each other . we were called “Bougie” because it happened that we were alll fabulous and liked being sassy and having fancy things hahahaa. we had a lot of solidarity and were funny. i had two fun roommates, and we’d tease each other and jokingly bully each other, calling each other “Betch” ha. we’d fall asleep in our mosquito nets and whisper about crushes haha and our sites , and if they went to sleep without their nets id tuck it in for them #im the only health volunteer in our room haha . during training in cold months, it was so fucking cold, like our fall in america, and i didnt expect that and had only brought dresses and a rain coat so was miserable ! so we’d all walk around with our bed blankets wrapped around us, and in the classroom ! -those blankets were like fleece or polyester or something, and if you use two, folded and on top of each other, its just the right weight/temp to be comforting ! then at night we’d be in the dining hall, drinking rum and fanta because it was super cheap there compared to home, like a beer sized bottle for a dollar. or this cheap boxed wine or beer in these heavy bottles and dance to music with our language teachers

[angelitam]

Fucking Fabulous de Tom Ford

Fucking Fabulous de Tom Ford, une fragrance iconoclaste. Fucking Fabulous de Tom Ford Fucking Fabulous de Tom Ford La fragrance Fucking Fabulous de Tom Ford est un parfum ambré cuiré iconoclaste aux accords tonka et iris. Un parfum de cuir explicite et épicé avec une emprise enivrante. La sauge sclarée vibrante et la lavande fraîche attirent l’attention avec des préliminaires aromatiques.…

[fashionlushblog]

so, apparently being EXTRA is genetic 💯 my cousin had drink cards made of exactly how she likes her cocktail & it’s pretty fucking fabulous. On the front is a photo of how the beverage should look & on the back is the exact recipe: 👇🏼 • 1 tall glass • cubed ice • Aperol • 1 WHOLE lemon, freshly squeezed • sparkling water • 3 DROPS of simply syrup • 1 straw & then the Italian translation... cause, obviously 🍋 next level BOUGIE... & totally stealing this idea ✨ (at San Francisco, California)