Latest Posts by jolieflows - Page 4

No extravagant words. No description. I just feel confused and lost. Maybe that's a good thing. I'll find my way back somehow... Some way.

Lara Croft: Tomb Raider Press Conference, 2001

You may find me to be the candidate for dos and don'ts. I can unravel with the times and wind up when the sun rises...

Even my own eyes cannot recognize me sometimes... that's okay. I like being mysterious. I beat with old blood. Bad, contaminated, drug-infused blood. But it's still blood...and I still am human.

In fact, the thing that scares me is not what I do, but what I like. I'm your typical punk girl with tattoos and a pouty face. Dark, right? But believe me, I am light. I am an enigma. I am a phase...I am human.

The real world is no stranger to us, nor is yesterday's hurt any deeper. Unlike yesterday, we can look forward to a better tomorrow. And tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, is a classic repeat?

We were prepared for failure. We hoped for destruction. We were on the cusp of disassembly. These hopes now will not plague us tomorrow. Tomorrow is the only one we have.The future is what's right.

🤍

reminder to self: u are worthy and loved, good things are coming ur way !!!!

𝐴 𝑛𝑒𝑤 𝑏𝑒𝑔𝑖𝑛𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔.

𝐴𝑙𝑙 𝑜𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑎𝑔𝑎𝑖𝑛 𝑤𝑒'𝑟𝑒 𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑟𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑎𝑡 1. 𝑂𝑛𝑒 𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑒 𝑑𝑎𝑦, 𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑒 𝑚𝑖𝑛𝑢𝑡𝑒—𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑜𝑛𝑒.

𝑇𝒉𝑒𝑠𝑒 𝑛𝑒𝑤 𝑑𝑎𝑦𝑠 𝑜𝑓 𝑝𝑎𝑠𝑡 𝑤𝑎𝑦𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑑𝑟𝑎𝑚𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑐 𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑒𝑝𝑙𝑎𝑦...𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑛𝑒𝑤 𝑑𝑎𝑦𝑠.

...𝐻𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑖𝑡 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑠, 𝑎𝑟𝑟𝑖𝑣𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑟𝑖𝑔𝒉𝑡 𝑜𝑛 𝑡𝑖𝑚𝑒. 𝑁𝑜𝑡𝒉𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡𝑜 𝑑𝑜...𝑏𝑢𝑡 𝑝𝑙𝑎𝑦 𝑡𝒉𝑎𝑡 𝑗𝑎𝑧𝑧 𝑚𝑢𝑠𝑒. 𝑇𝒉𝑜𝑠𝑒 𝑑𝑎𝑦 𝑜𝑙𝑑 𝑏𝑙𝑢𝑒𝑠...

—Solo—

III

It changed into Conan, Leno, Letterman, Stewart— all the late night shows wanted her. Even good Morning America, wanted Angelina on their show. And for what? GIA had emerged as an overnight success. HBO clearly had executed nicely, as did she—a Golden Globe nomination; and that was nothing to sneeze at. Matters were truly starting to pick up voltage with her career. Plenty of new projects sat on the horizon. Some scripts and films Angelina had fawned over for a couple of years, unsure if it honestly it matched her. Lisa Rowe; Girl Interrupted, actually was one that seemed to suit her quite well. But then came such movies as the Bone Collector, Pushing Tin, Gone in 60 Seconds— all of which made her uneasy. some of the “potential” cast participants were all stars she had watched on the large screen. Idolized even. Now, to be performing alongside them...become like an in depth fever hallucination of some type.

She and Julia acknowledged their way to the cramped crowd, that waited for them outside the hotel. Angelina was continually dazed to visualize fans—actual people who were there for her. It was insane to her. Her free hand fished the packet of cigarettes out her pocket, fitting to light one—then the bustle begun. Shouts for autographs, pictures, the whole nine. Angelina pleasantly submitted, satisfied and starstruck herself. With the unlit limp smoke in her mouth she marked a few autographs.

“Angelina!”

“Angelina! Are you and Johnny Miller back together?”

“Angelina! Are you going to do the movie with Denzel Washington!”

Going through as many autographs as she could, Angelina shook off the questions. “I don't really know...” She wasn't insensitive or mean--honestly, she didn't know. With the last autograph, she granted the person who wanted a kiss. That certainly revved up the crowd even more, causing both she and Julia and rest of their beefed up security team to laugh.

Waving to the rest, Angelina got into the SUV, buckled in, and lit her cigarette. Julia looked on with an unpleasant expression. She hated cigarettes. The fading brunette hair, actress raised an eyebrow as her lungs inhaled the nicotine. “Find me something better and I'll quit on the spot.”

Some of that statement was truthful. Angelina had done well for herself not to take drugs over the past two days—not that she could. With the Golden Globe nomination, the squeeze and the end of the film, she didn't have time to do her extracurricular business. And quite honestly she didn't miss it. That wasn't to say that Angelina hadn't taken up quite the chainsmoking—habits, but everything was a working progress.

Angelina always came away from meetings with certain executives emotional. Otherwise, there would have been no particular reason for her to be at a hotel. It wasn't in a negative sense she felt emotional- but a sense in which she was actually doing THIS. This—meaning: really picking scripts, having producers, directors, writers actually want her. After all, she had signed on to do the next few films. Taking the cigarette from her lips, she let the smoke escape through the crack in the window; a smirk of satisfaction rested on her lips as she did.

The car ride had only been several minutes. A quiet ride between she and Julia—no need to really exchange any words. As the SUV pulled into her driveway of her darkened house, Angelina cursed softly noting and perceiving she hadn't left a light anywhere in the house. She only hoped Yogi— hadn't caused any damaged or had been damaged himself. Yogi, was her new bestowed upon her puppy! Her brother James had randomly given him to her. Now, the four legged cutie was apart of her life. It was dark and the klutz she could be...it wasn't a good set up, as she made her up the steps of her porch. With her purse slung over her shoulder, shopping bags nibbled at her fingertips, and her journals pressed against her chest the actresses jogged, carefully up the rest of the stairs to her front door.

Most of the time Angelina wouldn't bother to leave the doors locked. Even though safety precautions warranted her too. It made things easier when meetings, filming—ect ran late. Her body made it through the door on cue as the horn of the car, signaled a goodbye. The shopping bags fell to the floor, her purse slipped down her arm, and of course the journals in her hands began faltering as well.

Before long she could hear the deep pounding padding steps, of her eager doggy Yogi. In a blink of an eye the lovable chocolate Labrador—ran upon her. Tail wagging, eyes large with anticipation, and barking as if Angelina have been gone for hundreds of years. Bending down to meet the adorable canine halfway. She scratched him, patting his fur, and permit the four legged animal to lick her face a bit. “Been a good boy? Hm? Yes? Yes!”

She was answered with more speedy barks and licks of affection. Regaining her standing position, Angelina and Yogi traveled past the dim living room, over the two little steps and into the kitchen. Out stretching one arm, Angelina flicked on the kitchen light and was met with the white affluent, peaceful ambiance of the kitchen fully. Most of the cooking contraptions, the actress had failed to use— her attention span for cooking was anything less than bearable.

Small chuckles echoed from her lips as she fished around the lower cabinets trying to find a snack. Yogi, budded his head against her leg— almost asking for one himself. After grabbing a few simple crackers for herself, dog treat for the pup, Angelina pranced her way to her bedroom.

The lanky actress had wolfed down the crackers fast. Now she became situated in a heated, candlelit, door closed and locked, bubble bathtub. Her pale skin soaking in the sweet lavender body wash, she so graciously added to the water— along with some honeysuckle bath bombs. Angelina adored bubble baths, mainly after long days which includes one like today. As the soothing, muscle relaxing home spa like treatment was needed—to was the Rose Gold, Pinot wine that sat half empty on the rim of the sleek porcelain tub. In the beginning stages of her soak she had, nursed the wine. Baby sips, little nips. Then, grabbing the glass by the base she downed the wine. Rich in taste, smooth on the route, leaving a satisfied almost drool expression upon her face.

Raising her head a bit, damp strings of her hair sticking to her neck. Her misty eyes viewed the steam from the water—it was gratifying to see. Angelina stuck one arm out from under the water, watching enticingly close, as droplets fell from her thin fingertips. A soft “Mmm.” Rang from the depths of her throat, and past her lips. This was bliss. This was truly a peace maker to her overactive mind. Overactive life in some areas.

𝑊ℎ𝑒𝑛 𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑙𝑖𝑡𝑡𝑙𝑒 𝑔𝑖𝑟𝑙𝑠 𝑤𝑎𝑛𝑡𝑒𝑑 𝑡𝑜 𝑏𝑒 𝑏𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑒𝑡 𝑑𝑎𝑛𝑐𝑒𝑟𝑠. 𝐼 𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑑 𝑜𝑓 𝑤𝑎𝑛𝑡𝑒𝑑 𝑡𝑜 𝑏𝑒 𝑎 𝑣𝑎𝑚𝑝𝑖𝑟𝑒.

-𝐴𝑛𝑔𝑒𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑎 𝐽𝑜𝑙𝑖𝑒

Transition. Night|Mornin’.

To begin once more, almost reborn? Does that make any sense in the slightest? Or am I crossing the threshold of denial. solutions, I want solutions. Will that put out the festering and flora and fauna fire inside of me? solutions.

Riddle me this...and achieve this to the point where my eyes sink in. What am I gaining, if there's some thing to benefit? Retreating into my own mind creating conditions that haven't and won't appear. Crazy? possibly. Insane? it truly is a piece on the splitting facet. So many matters at bay—my fingertips stained in within the blood of what may be. ...it is simply that, what could be...

Where's my Jacob Marley when I want him? Am I too forging the chain link by link, yard by yard? Where are the three spirits with the intention to help me alternate my ways? I'm calling out— I'm yelling in. I am full of light and rain. Extra solar than rain, more tears than ache, and this...like many different writings is an ode for development. Angelina! you are okay. it's going to all get greater later... And remember later doesn't mean today, tomorrow, or next week— it just means later.

This. Really, really, really—felt this.

i am always giving, and never receiving. when is it my turn to be special to somebody

Christian Wiman, from Once in the West; "Music Maybe"

[Text ID: one wants in the end just once to be friend / one's own loneliness, // to make of the ache of inwardness— // something, // music maybe,]

where am I? now not bodily. Mentally I need to realize where I am at. How am I still breathing above the tide? I sense like I am suffocating in my very own doubts. My very own doubts are to strangle me into some other realm if i'm not careful.

So where does that depart me now? Itching for ink, itching for a experience of comfort. where's my stash? that's what I need. To open that stash, put on that record, and inhale life through a haze that's not me—however a part of me. Yeah, I have gone back on my phrase and who the fuck cares. I need to know who I am and where the fuck I am.

My future self will shake her head in disappointment. And i'm able to shake it together with her— I want a way out, a way in, a place to belong. an area in which I don't experience as if i'm drowning in myself.

Angelina Jolie (1996)

The daily check in|

My doubts serve as an additional sense. Maybe? Whatever. This is how I am currently doing at the moment and just like everything it will surely change. I feel seen. Open. Yet cloudy at the same time.

I feel that I'm being forced to walk a line of conformance with my arms tied above my head. Should I falter... I will be doomed. Arms tied. My balance must be perfect.

However, that is the beauty of life, the essence. While I will fight every inch of my being to never walk the line of conformity, I applaud the part of me that feels it can drag me to it.

how to disappear completely and never be found again

Franz Kafka, The Diaries of Franz Kafka: 1910-1913

I am tired. Every part of me is tired. I am so thankful daily for the brightest blessings. But I have had enough thinking.

It is a space that I have created so that I can express myself and feel the way I want to. How to quiet my thoughts.. how to turn off this waterfall? All I want to do is not think anymore.

It is not that I am sad. I am not in the cloud of overindulged over-exasperated mixed emotions. It is simply that I am tired. I simply want peace and quiet. I want to smile and not over think it.

I feel proud of my damages. Odd? You betcha. How can one speak with a positive tone about one's own destruction? But it's possible. I'm proud of my climb, my metamorphosis, and my halting ways.

It feels like I'm tone-deaf to all the unsupportive hindrances that I've encountered in this amorphous transition. My mouth hangs open when I find myself speechless regarding the notions of speaking argumentatively. Have I...learned? Oh certainly. And what arguments have I had? The ones with myself.

Every active stimulus that finds it's way into my realm is causing my senses to awaken, bloom, and burst with activity. I love it. Lackluster. No enthusiasm. Why? As a way to become more aware of my damages and feel proud.

“Don’t start your day with the broken pieces of yesterday. Every day is a fresh start.”

— Unknown

Angelina Jolie, Oscars 2000

II. —Solo—

“You’re getting something else over it?” Julia asked, her face was contorted in concern as her voice was laced with disbelief.

Angelina nodded as she sat in the backseat of the car criss-cross with her journal prompted on her lap. The girls had been talking about various things. More particularly, the next few days of Angelina's schedule. Cristofer put off filming due to the confusion and frustration derived from traveling from New York to Philadelphia - there was trouble transporting filming equipment. Angelina enjoyed the fluidity and breaks between filming.

Again, the topic turned into the “wild” stuff Angelina had been dabbling in. Though, she couldn't exactly lable it as ‘wild’ when all she did was get two new tattoos. Slip-shot ones at that. Initially, Angelina's tattoo was to be completed in the Netherlands. She had a nitch now to travel-she was itching to be anywhere but where she was. But just like the filming, it had been cancelled. Nothing to worry about-she hired an artist.

Julia looked over her glasses peering at the almost fading in colour, brunette. “You really had that guy tat you, in the back of his car? Needles and everything?”

“Mhmm,” Angelina answered as she flipped through her journal. Some pages felt damp to the touch; signaling she had just written on them...more or less scribbled too.

Julia was stunned when Angelina told her how her dragon tattoo was done. It was not so much that Angelina got it in such an insensitive place, but rather where, the tattooist had done it. In the back seat of his car! The women had traded sentiments of bubbling fun nitpicking jabs—in which Julia had grilled Angelina in a questioning manner if she had been high at the time.

“Well yeah... How else do you think I stayed calm?” Angelina laughed giving a callus shrug.

Her need, the burning intensity to just say 'fuck it!' and get the tattoos was evident that night. It hurt, and the close body heat between her and the artist was above her comfort zone. It didn't matter though; She felt like she was trapped, too confined, too small right now. Is this what would happen every time the end of filming approaches? Angelina had been wondering that for a couple of days now. She didn't forget that under her pillow, at home, laid Lisa Rowe. Scripts itself were like a hot portal into the next character, next personality she would be exposed to. Or rather, it was like a hot piston digging into her body. Is that why she was on the edge of running? Wanting to get pricked and drawn on?

Angelina twisted her lips in a puckering motion as she let these dragged and explosive thoughts filter in and out of her mind. Her eyes were on Julia but she couldn't hear or understand what she was saying—she knew she was saying something because her lips were moving. While she delved deeper into her thoughts, Angelina felt her conscience slipping. What was truly happening to her? Not in the moment, but inside of her. Why did she store the script under the pillow, like a dirty little Playboy magazine? Why was she still insistent on getting a tattoo?

With a few slow blinks she raised a hand to her head touching the messy bun of hair. Almost like a reassurance that she was still here, still alive, she tugged at the hair on her head and let out a low chuckle. Julia had turned fully in her seat facing the correct position; done speaking, Angelina guessed. It was almost like the ride was going on forever—she'd lost track of where they were going. Next to her were the roses that the tattoo artist had given her. They were wilting now; it seems like she was wilting as well. That thought alone caused a bit of a creepy smile to curl her naturally pouty lips—yeah, maybe she was wilting...changing, adapting. It could all be into something she'd look back on and be proud of. Maybe, maybe, that's why she wanted new tattoos, maybe that's why she found herself recording everything into her journal, maybe that's why Lisa Rowe frightened her so. Maybe. Maybe was always a bright side.

To give, receive, and accept love; all of it. Only I wish to embrace all parts of love. That love that bleeds from awkwardness to gush. I want the love that will sometimes kick my ass and beat me into submission.

My aggressive words define how I intend to walk the shallow, narrow, sharp, and smooth trails of life. I'll plunge in headfirst and stay until I figure out whether I want the thing or not. Not wanting something...is rare for me.

You never meet someone as greedy, hardheaded, bubbly, dark and soft as me? Chill on that. To whom am I writing this? Me? Okay, yeah, that's fine. I'm still in that phase of being more ‘me’ and less ‘it.’

It's a Monday, so I am in full throttle mode of talking to myself. How often do I talk to myself that I must jot it down and read it as if...it wasn't me. Oh, dear God...ha. Anyway, yeah... I'm made for love-I can be that.

—Solo—

There are few films and scripts that suit Angelina, so when the opportunity to star in GIA came along, she hesitated to take it. She wasn't attracted to the writing or story-it was her connection to it. In her small apartment, she struggled with herself as she read the script. Letting it be known to her agent, assistant, and close friends that she loved the writing—but personally...it was very close to home.

She was now acting, reciting the lines, living day by day as if she were GIA herself; an honor Angelina felt it was. And it was. Each day of filming further immersed her into the world of modeling. It allowed her to share a part of her that she kept to herself. Cristofer had called her ‘The apple to his pie’ at the end, of the 16 hour filming and that solidified Angelina's big smile that night. And also solidified any, gut-wrenching and nervous feeling in the pit of Angelina's stomach. Because there were some days where she never thought that she'd be the leading lady in a film—much less playing such an iconic person.

The actress had learned from her father and her mother, that work never stops. One project, doesn't exclude you from entertaining or dabbling in the works of other projects. The moment Angelina landed her first role, she devoted everything she had to the role. Choosing to ignore the other opportunities that came her way-much like her dating life which was definitely one for another time. But it was that hyper fixation that she found herself missing the other elements of her personality—the call to grow as an actress. Not this time, she had said to herself. Work, process, grow, dabble, be interested; was the motto for life now. GIA was wrapping up and that opened a window for Angelina to take her sniff around the block into other avenues of different roles.

“Lisa Rowe...” She whispered to herself as her hand caressed the cover of the worn and torn script.

Worn and torn from the aggravated trips the script had gone on. From suitcases, purses, hand swaps—you name it. Angelina searched around for one of the many lighters she had bought; she had a specific routine when she read scripts. That made her laugh. It made Angelina angry to read scripts. Following written instructions made her feel like a machine, almost like an automatic response. Her limp cigarette moved as a muffled chuckle echoed from her body. With another pat around for her lighter she had found it and lit up the tenth or 100th cigarette that night.

What...was it about Lisa Rowe that intrigued her so? Was it the idea of dying her hair blonde again? Maybe. The effects of being able to possibly smoke on camera? That's a thought. Or, was it the crippling fact that deep down, past the punk girlish—ravished facade Angelina was Lisa. Just as she was GIA. No method acting required to be these ‘intense’ characters. Angelina was already these people.

Ashes collected at the tip of the cigarette; she refused to let them fall. Her hands were white knuckling the script, fully engrossed in it. Tears sprang to her eyes. A sea of anxiety washed over Angelina as she read through the next pages of the script. Incoherent mumbles, murmured curses that tumbling from the corner her mouth, yet still refusing to let the ash drop. A tear rolled down her cheek. God. It had her. The script had her. More tears, more pressure to keep reading, more tears, more reading. It felt like a slow take on an old action scene—

“—Lina! Angelina! ...You didn't hear me calling you?” Her brother stood in the doorway, voice bouncing off the bare walls almost; slightly concerned.

Angelina looked up from the paper a bit in shock. She didn't realize she had been crying, spilling salty tear discharge and ash onto the script. Wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, flinging the mess off the paper she sniffled. “No. I didn't. What's...up?”

Her brother James was around more often. More than he had been in earlier years. They were taught when they were children that family, was always important. They understood -- but when shit happens... it happens. And so they grew. Each charting and following a similar yet unique path as they grew up. James, was a phenomenal writer; earning him much deserved and well received accolades for his talent. Angelina was a proud younger sister. Then around 96’-97’ the pair didn't speak. Maybe, it was due to Angelina's very fast, quick tempered, over in a snap marriage—that was always possible. Or, maybe it was due to the interchangeable differences they shared in regards to their father.

James and their dad had a smooth, solid relationship. They were men... Brought together by sports, scotch, and the occasional ‘busting of the chops.’ Nevertheless, James always seemed to do whatever their father told him to. Angelina couldn't and wouldn't be a lap dog like that. Which in the end caused strife and strain to the relationship with her father. They were so intense, causing she and James to be intense. Then... something happened; the pair became close. Friends almost. James taking on the big brother role—offering immense advice, guidance, leadership, but most importantly that aspect of friendship. Which in the beginning was slightly odd to Angelina—odd in the sense that her older brother could be a friend to her. She found herself now confining in him, they shared secrets, laughs; everything that they had possibly missed out on years ago.

“The takeout is here. What's...going on? Why are you cooped up in this room..? Why are you crying?” James paused his questions, and took breath. His own large blue eyes scanned the quality of Angelina's room— an unpleasant look served as his facial expression. “Did something happen between you and J—”

“No.” She cut that question off quickly as she inhaled another puff of nicotine.

“Why are you crying?”

She removed the cigarette from her lips, now arranging it between her thumb and forefinger, Angelina looked at him. How could she explain the strong emotional connection she felt to words on a page? She didn't want to sound like a total lunatic. The script revolved round the plush and prickly luxury of a Ward for women—and it didn't help that she had to sound nervous or odd, within her explanation of why she was crying.

“Just...” Angelina began while stubbing the cigarette out in the ashtray. “Reading.”

James scoffed leaning his body in the curve of the door. “So that's make you cry now? Simply reading.”

“Words can move you, Jamie.” His boyhood nickname rolled off her tongue playfully, as another sniffle came right after.

James didn't pry or budge with any more questions. Instead he kept a glowing glare on his sister—and Angelina would be lying if she didn't feel slightly uncomfortable from his stare. Lowering her head she held her breath, his stare was becoming increasingly rough. “Stop it.” She mumbled.

He did. Refusing to give him the satisfaction of a stare down or completely lay all her emotional worries on him—Angelina kept her head low. James took that cue and had left the doorway disappearing somewhere else in the apartment. The actress shook off all jitters removing herself from the bed and ran a hand through her hair. Without a mirror she could tell, the black dye was fading from her roots—she didn't mind it. It would probably look cool...having jet black hair, with roots that almost looked grey, sorta.

After gathering her cigarettes and whatever else she was going to bring with her, Angelina tucked the script underneath her pillow, almost like a secret. And maybe it was a secret. Her pillow would protect this secret. She'd return later on tonight, pick that script back up, and find more ways than one, on why she was Lisa Rowe and why Lisa Rowe was her.

Angelina Jolie photographed by Philip Wong, 1991

At the rate I'm going my succession is the least of my worries. I am beyond the clothes, hair, glitters and gold. I'm exhaling any pent up aggression brought on by unnecessary stress. Oh yes, I am. This worn out cliché and ode to ‘starting a new’ because of course a post, stamp, scribble will enhance any of the hard work that comes along with actually doing it. So I write it. Or I go around shouting to myself like the beatnik freak I can be. Almost in a jumbled fashion, no?

Be

Better

Or

Else.

Or else what?

Bouncing off the metaphorical wall with howling into the wind. A nuclear war with myself—if I were a country alone, I'd be nuked by own inner self. Ahh...there we go... there's that playable and loveable skepticism I've found. Humorous no? Yes. Because now I can move past it.

“I’ve learned people are made of layers and sometimes you have to wait until the next one is revealed.”

— @sixwordssayitall

There are parts of me that are broken, tangled together, hurtful, and joyful. I've talked about this before, but that ravished part of me doesn't care. I am still learning. Learning how to... To put on paper how I really feel. It goes well beyond the creepy, spooky, and unsettling feelings that I will harbor within me. No fancy talk, no cover-up, just how to...

The high effects of life's ecstasy warn me off. Dull eyes, zombie dragged and drugged, I am a personality bubbled and bright, but only in the dark crooks of my mind. No mask. Uncovered and here to stay. I can be two, three, four, or six people at the same time! I don't want to be trapped in the bug house. I don't want a circus. I'm just letting loose this sticky muse.

There will be another muse like this. This personality will regain its strength and trust me, I'll be here to capture it. I am not someone who locks it up and pretends to be a housewife. Fuck it. Captured it and I'm happy. This is an anxious capture.

To: Angie.

From: Angelina.