hooplecxnt:

𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝓅𝑜𝑒𝓂𝓈 𝓌𝒽𝒾𝓈𝓅𝑒𝓇 𝒻𝑜𝓇𝑔𝑒𝓉-𝓂𝑒-𝓃𝑜𝓉𝓈 𝑜𝒻 𝒽𝒾𝓈 𝓃𝒶𝓂𝑒, 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓂𝓊𝓈𝒾𝒸 𝒽𝒶𝓈 𝒷𝑒𝑔𝓊𝓃 𝓉𝑜 𝒽𝒶𝓋𝑒 𝓂𝑒𝒶𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝑜𝓃𝒸𝑒 𝓂𝑜𝓇𝑒 – 𝓈𝒾𝓃𝑔𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒽𝒾𝓈 𝓈𝒸𝓇𝒾𝓅𝓉𝓊𝓇𝑒. 𝒜𝓇𝓉 𝓈𝓉𝒶𝓇𝓉𝓈 𝓉𝑜 𝒻𝓁𝑜𝓌 𝑜𝓊𝓉 𝑜𝒻 𝓂𝓎 𝓋𝑒𝒾𝓃𝓈, 𝒷𝓁𝑒𝑒𝒹𝒾𝓃𝑔, 𝒶𝓈 𝑜𝒻𝒻𝑒𝓇𝒾𝓃𝑔𝓈 𝓊𝓅𝑜𝓃 𝒽𝒾𝓈 𝒶𝓁𝓉𝒶𝓇. ♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡ 𝒪𝒽 𝒽𝑜𝓌 𝐼 𝓃𝑜 𝓁𝑜𝓃𝑔𝑒𝓇 𝒸𝓇𝒶𝓋𝑒 𝒶𝓃𝓎𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃𝑔, 𝒷𝓊𝓉 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓈𝑒𝓇𝑒𝓃𝒾𝓉𝓎 𝑜𝒻 𝒷𝑒𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒶𝓉 𝒽𝒾𝓈 𝓂𝑒𝓇𝒸𝓎 – 𝒶𝓉 𝒽𝒾𝓈 𝓌𝒾𝓁𝓁, 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒽𝒾𝓈 𝓉𝑜 𝒷𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓀. 𝒯𝑜 𝒷𝑒 𝑜𝒻 𝒶 𝑔𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝓅𝓊𝓇𝓅𝑜𝓈𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓃 𝓂𝓎 𝑜𝓌𝓃 𝒷𝑒𝒾𝓃𝑔.

Good girls bloom under an acid reign.