I believe an introduction is in order.
My name is Bridgette. I’m seventeen, awkward and a romantic realist.
I love good poetry, milky tea, hot days, cold nights, photography, fake moustaches, Pablo Neruda, freckles, pale skin, Tarantino films, red lipstick, grammatically correct sentences, feminism, making lists, Fox Mulder, candid moments, the smell of rain on a freshly mowed lawn and warm hugs from skinny, awkward boys.
I collect cameras; I have eleven so far and their names are Charles, Octavian, Valerie, Benny, Richie, Harvey, Katrina, Michael, Tiny, Fox and Boo.
I love books with never ending passages of description and words that flow endlessly like amber honey from the edge of a spoon, books that wrap me in the warmth of the written word and entangle me in the joys of fictional loves and losses and perfect philosophies, books brimming full of poetry and syllables and pausing breaths that are so beautiful that my heart aches and feels as if it will burst from melancholic joy.