a-fragile-sort-of-anarchy:

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a-fragile-sort-of-anarchy:

a-fragile-sort-of-anarchy:

a-fragile-sort-of-anarchy:

a-fragile-sort-of-anarchy:

a-fragile-sort-of-anarchy:

a-fragile-sort-of-anarchy:

Platonic intimacy is seeing your friend’s car in the grocery store parking lot and parking so close to him that he can’t open his door and has the crawl through the passenger’s side.

Platonic intimacy is hot gluing four copies of Resident Evil – Code: Veronica to the ceiling of his hallway closet and seeing how long it takes him to notice that there’s four copies of Resident Evil – Code: Veronica hot glued to the ceiling of his hallway closet.

Platonic intimacy is watching the graceful curve of his body as he stretches in bed, fixating on the strip of skin where his shirt’s pulled up juuuust enough that you can sneeze on his exposed stomach and then run away while he’s distracted and bewildered by how super gross and unnecessary that was.

Platonic intimacy is sending him an e-mail that says, “The Harbinger of Boy Sauce is Upon You,” instead of just, like, texting him and letting him know you’re on your way to help him do his shots.

Platonic intimacy is calling him in the middle of the night and waking him up because you heard a weird noise outside that you’re about to investigate, and you need moral support and also someone to call an ambulance if you end up having to knife fight a racoon.

No, it’s platonic. If it’s romantic, you gotta’ have a rose between your teeth and one titty out.

Just say moirailegance

I HATE you.