Celeste is my actual name but often words contradict real life. 19 year old baby trash from Northern California.
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simplymagdorable:

Sixties fashion at Schiphol Airport Amsterdam, 1967

Iā€™m constantly torn between wanting cute cuddles and nasty, naughty, dirty sex.

reblog // 481// 19 hours ago
reblog // 481// 19 hours ago
reblog // 481// 19 hours ago
reblog // 481// 19 hours ago
reblog // 481// 19 hours ago
reblog // 481// 19 hours ago
reblog // 481// 19 hours ago
reblog // 481// 19 hours ago
reblog // 481// 19 hours ago
reblog // 481// 19 hours ago

my name is celeste and if ur associated w me bad things will happen to u bc bad things are happening to everyone around me rn

My grandpa always spoke of my safety, “cleaning his Injun knives” if I ever introduced a date, and how he, the strong sturdy man he was, might shed a tear if I decided to get married. Now he isn’t here and I can’t think of the gap that is now present. I had not done any of those things with him. I wanted him to see my kids bearing the same kindness he had, I wanted to provide for him should my elderly grandmother, his senior, make her passing first. I miss him so much and I can’t do anything to have him back. He taught me what unconditional love was. I love you and hope I can live to your expectations. -Your first granddaughter and only “Wombat”
Anonymous: Why not fall in love?

brianashanee:

I got shit to do

bahliss:

JACQUEMUS FW14
themodelburnbook:

New York was like a shitty dream that I couldn’t wake up from. I was living in a factory in Bushwick Brooklyn situated between a slaughter house and the garage where they rinsed out Manhattan’s garbage trucks. I would skip over stomach churning puddles of water—foamy and white with animal fat—on my way to Jefferson station in the morning to catch the train to the city with my Latin American neighbors. I had no agency in NY at the time. So I was up every day scared as fuck negotiating the sidewalks of Manhattan in a pair of clearance sale Alexander Wang boots that I had purchased with my credit card, praying I would someday see that money returned to me. I was 27 years old pretending to be 22 and I wanted to kill myself every day. The only thing that got me thru those times was a marijuana delivery service and this barely-legal Swedish male model who lived so deep in Chinatown, I needed to speak Chinese to get directions back to LES. I did manage to have a lot of friends in Manhattan that loved me but I kept my distance from them because I didn’t want any of them to know how shitty and alone I truly felt. Also, our friendships were just expensive to maintain. The thought of dividing a bill at a restaurant in the East Village between 15 people had me waking up in a cold sweat, and I couldn’t afford $60 of Molly-water on a fucking Tuesday. I had Brooklyn problems. I was inspecting the spaces between my floorboards for weed crumbs and rationing from my bulk stash of mint-choco Clif bars which were my main source of nourishment. Sometimes I would spend entire days laying on the bed in my windowless cubbyhole, completely catatonic. Tears streaming from my hot cheeks before soaking into my matted hair and the bare mattress beneath me. One of my 6 roommates, Donnie, would often knock on my door and wonder aloud what the fuck was wrong with me. But he couldn’t understand. He was a 25 year old graphic designer who had his entire life ahead of him to succeed in his field. I had a year tops. I was fucking trapped. I couldn’t quit modeling because I need to pay the bills that I had accumulated from modeling. I wasn’t in the financial position to give up modeling for an unpaid internship in fashion, and I was completely under-qualified to take any paying position. I felt totally and utterly fucked. I didn’t know what was going to become of me. I had supposedly made so much money modeling. I had the statements to prove it. But where was it all? Expenses. Travel. Accommodations. I was making money on paper, but I had nothing to show for it. I was the working class poor, but Lord was it ever keeping me thin. 

My grandpa always spoke of my safety, “cleaning his guns” if I ever introduced a date, and how he the strong sturdy man he was, might shed a tear if I decide to get married. Now he isn’t here and I can’t think of the gap that is now here. I had not done any of those things with him. I wanted him to see my kids baring the same kindness he had, I wanted to provide for him if my elderly grandmother his senior would pass away first. I miss him so much and I can’t do anything to have him back