Singing Radiohead at the top of our lungs.
With the boom box blaring as we’re falling in love.
Got a bottle of whatever, but it’s getting us drunk.
singing… here’s to never growing up.
Does this mean I’m supposed to be a trophy wife?
“Leave it to Blair Waldorf to know that bitches don’t just happen. They’re made.”
Is this what it feels like to be happy? Because… I could definitely get used to it. :-)