And then you feel bad about yourself after you eat a lot of it.
Violets are blue.
I like your face.
Let’s kiss on the mouth.” —
A super romantic poem I just wrote for a boyyyyyyyyyyy who may or may not have made an appearance on this little old tumblr earlier today.
Homegirl is going to regret the hell out of this later, when she’s unable to take a dump.
HEY, STOP LOOKING AT TYPEWRITERS ON EBAY.
THANK YOU KINDLY, SIR.
This only further solidifies it in my mind as the greatest piece of clothing that I own.
Also: SEVEN. HOUR. HANGOVER.
He has asked me if I am going to “cowgirl up” and I don’t know what that means.
I stared at that picture for a full five minutes and silently patted myself on the back the WHOLE TIME BECAUSE GODDAMN.
WELL DONE, ME.
As in, who do I look to for guidance on those subjects? Oh man…
Where education is concerned, my mother, some of her cousins, and one of my great aunts were ALL THE FUCK OVER the Chicago Public School system in the 70’s and 80’s. Going to college was never one of those “ARE you going to go?” questions but moreso “WHERE are you going to go?” questions. Being raised by a teacher means you grow up in a sort of mortal fear of your educators because your parents will ALWAYS side with your teachers on everything. It doesn’t matter if you were falsely accused, it doesn’t matter if someone MADE you do something. If you fucked up, it was YOUR fuckup and YOU were going to own that shit and make it right. And your parents would make damn sure of that.
Relationships…is a little tough. My parents went to the high school the “Grease” is based on and were a real life Danny & Sandy. My first high school boyfriend is gay gay gay gay and I didn’t have sex (or even really UNDERSTAND sex) until college because I was raised in a very dark cave or something. So it’s weird with that kind of parental model and that kind of “relationship base” because you never have any real idea how to go about things. You play it by ear and learn what works and what doesn’t and what you can get away with and so on. Moral of the story: If you don’t want it done to you, don’t do it to someone else. This includes cheating, lying, snooping, whatever.
In terms of humor - I am a direct product of my parents. Spend ten minutes in a room with my immediate family and I, and you’ll see it in a heartbeat. I don’t think hat I myself am particularly funny, but I play it off by being really self-depreciating and loud. For whatever reason, people think that caps lock is hilarious, so I’ll be damned if I don’t abuse the hell out of ye olde caps lock. I’m also fortunate that I work in a bar because it get to be in a bunch of funny situations all day. But the root of everything goes right back to my parents. My mom does not give a single fuck and if something strikes her as funny - she’ll ride it out for as long as she can. And my dad was known among my circle of friends when I was younger as one of those “funny dads” - I have no idea how to describe the man’s sense of humor other than that it’s largely rooted in shit-giving.
I hope that…worked for you? I’m not 100% sure what you were asking but I think I answered as well as I could. If I need to clarify, let me know?
- Hipster 1: Craigslist is a played out piece of shit. I mean, it's played out.
- Hipster 2: Yeah? What's NOT played out?
- Hipster 1: Walking around. Calling your friends. Texting your friends.
- Using one’s sleeve to blow one’s nose when doing strenuous outdoor activities (i.e.: running, dog walking, horseback riding, etc)
Whenever I date someone I deem to be “unfairly good-looking” I always have this moment of dread that’s like:
“Oh dear lord, I am not pretty enough for this boy.”
“Shit. What if he learns how incredibly boring I actually am? I sit around and update my stupid tumblr and make playlists and walk my dog when I’m not at work and THAT’S KIND OF IT.”
And I know that this is a horrible way to think about things because it’s not like I’m drugging them or tricking them into dating me or whatever. They’re there because…they want to be, I guess. But goddamn. I feel like any time I date someone who is WAY WAY WAY GOOD-LOOKING, that he’ll realize he made a mistake or something.
(The secret implication here is that I am sort of hanging out with/talking to someone who is WAY WAY WAY GOOD-LOOKING these days and it’s blowing my mind.
And just by typing this, I have probably jinxed it. Crap.)
(Also, I should totally shut the hell up because he totally visited me at work yesterday.)
you are posting some AMAZING tunes lately and I’m not being ironic at all. this is my jam, etc.
My sister and I used to dance around the house to this in our stirrup pants and oversized puffy-paint sweatshirts when we were super little.
This song will never NOT be my jam. :)
not only dead, not only fallen,
but full of maggots: what do you feel -
more pity or more revulsion?
Pity is for the moment of death,
and the moments after. It changes
when decay comes, with the creeping stench
and the wriggling, munching scavengers.
Returning later, though, you will see
a shape of clean bone, a few feathers,
an inoffensive symbol of what
once lived. Nothing to make you shudder.
It is clear then. But perhaps you find
the analogy I have chosen
for our dead affair rather gruesome -
too unpleasant a comparison.
It is not accidental. In you
I see maggots close to the surface.
You are eaten up by self-pity,
crawling with unlovable pathos.
If I were to touch you I should feel
against my fingers fat, moist worm-skin.
Do not ask me for charity now:
go away until your bones are clean.” —Advice to a Discarded Lover, Fleur Adcock (via corcordium)