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My name's Meghan, and I'm nineteen. I like feminism, Sofia Coppola, apples, and John Lennon's nose. When I grow up I want to be Winona Ryder and/or David Foster Wallace. I have a bad personality. I'm working on it?

11:57 pm  693 notes

Old, from journal

I tell you you have the same name as someone I hate so that is how I will remember you. 

I am the girl with the flowery legs. That’s just my leggings, I say, you shake your head. 

My friend is vomiting into the toilet and I should probably go. 

Do you want to smoke a j, you ask, and I wonder if your roommate told you more about me than I thought. I always want to smoke a j.

When I am drunk, and with a guy, I maintain this level of almost freakish detachment and I am so, so cool down to my bones. I fade in and out and I wind around and I don’t get stuck on anything. I flow. I wish I could be like this when I am sober. When I am drunk, everybody wants me, and it electrifies me. I have a little sexy half-smile that only comes out when I’m drunk.

We walk back to your house with your other friend and we talk as you roll the joints and then he sits on the mattress and we sit in two chairs facing each other and smoke them. This is the moment I realize we’re going to hook up tonight. You pull my legs into your lap and run your fingers up and down my legs and they get higher and higher until you’re pressing them against my inner thigh and we’re just staring at each other with watery, decided blue eyes as your roommate talks about his internship. 

And then he says he needs to take his contacts out which is a lie, probably.

You’re cute, you say. Maybe a thousand times. 

I’ll take off mine if you take off yours, you say.

You have a tattoo on your chest and I ask about it and you explain it but I can hardly picture it now, let alone remember what it means.

Our mouths are dry from the pot but the kissing is good, so good. When you lock the door and turn off the lights our bodies are just lit by the moon peering through the skylight and I know I am very drunk but it is so beautiful. 

You’re a few years older than me and I’d forgotten what that would mean, maybe—that you’re actually good at this, that you know what you’re doing, that when your teeth slide over my breasts or when your fingers slide over my slickness that it could be good, that it could be this good. I make little sounds that I claim I only make when drunk (this is a lie) and you’re pleased and you leave a round hickey on my neck that my friend tells me looks like a Pac-Man when I’m brushing my teeth the next day.

 I never take off my flowered leggings, you just work under and over them, squeezing my bare ass on the sides of my thong. I paw at you as you do this but either you are too considerate or know that I am too drunk to do anything but receive.

I am slightly frantic when we fall asleep. I remember my friend that is puking and realize I left my phone at the other house where the party was. You tell me just to sleep for a little and I do. I wake up again still drunk and you pull me in and tell me I can’t leave at this hour it’s too late now…and then I wake up again and it’s the morning and I’m not drunk anymore and you help me find my bra and my shirt and you walk me downstairs and point in the direction of the house we came from where my phone still is and we kiss briefly. You try for longer but I pull away because it’s morning and I’m already bored with you.

A few weeks later, you give me a joint at another party where you’re rolling them. I pretend I don’t know your name.

11:38 pm  1 note

“You’re in bed and you’re hearing your parents talk. You’re just hearing the lovely lilt of it. It’s this beautiful music, and you want to be a part of it, and it doesn’t matter that you don’t understand. And that mystery of not knowing what they’re saying is a wonderful mystery. And you’ll never know what they’re saying. Even if you knew the words, you still wouldn’t know what they were saying. I remember that, I remember listening to just the sounds of language and thinking it was so beautiful, or more the intonations, the ups and downs. The contours. Which has an interesting connection with T.S. Eliot, when he said, about The Wasteland, that it doesn’t matter if you don’t know the languages that are in it, you just let it wash over you. That’s an interesting bumping up against that childhood experience, overhearing just the contours. How comforting it is.”

 Dorianne Laux, from Mattress Talk

(Source: violentwavesofemotion, via notnai)

10:33 pm  703 notes

A bad metaphor for competitive friends/competitive self/jealousy/a lot of other ghastly gooey black feelings that only make life poorer

This doesn’t have to be an arms race. One of us is not the U.S., and other is not Russia or China or India or whomever the competitor of the week is.

You know, maybe I’m just Sweden. I barely have a military. I am not worse than you if you still live as if you’re Russia. I’m not like you because I don’t want to be like you. Not because I can’t be, because I don’t have the will power or skill. It’s just not whatt I want. I want to be a Nordic state, boring and happy and going through my life without a ton of forethought. I don’t have to force myself to be a fore thinker like you if that is not what I am. In fact, I shouldn’t. It’s a disservice to me and the way I process and understand the world and it’s also a disservice to you.

2:56 am

2:46 am  5,510 notes

“I’ve got meanness in me. And some of you girls have meanness in you, too. And it’s not necessarily something I know we’re very proud of. Well, sometimes I’m not. When I’m vvvvv-vicious. And that usually happens because, ohh god, who knows why. But it’s funny when it happens and you just become one of these like um… You know those comic books? Sven the Berserker. Well, it’d be nice if I uh… had a better understanding of it. And I think those of you that have those crazy tempers know what I’m talking about. Now some of you are at the other end of those crazy tempers, which isn’t that fun, either, is it? Or maybe it is, isn’t it, you little mmm, mmm, mmm, you little gimp, you! [snorts like a pig] But um, the thing is, this girl I knew once named Marianne, who was the absolutely, you know, coolest. She was totally cool. And yet she didn’t have this meanness in her. She had so many other things in her. You know, nanana, but meanness wasn’t one of them. So when I was hanging around her, I didn’t need to have this meanness. Basically when my mother said, “Hey, um, oh my god, Marianne killed herself,” the only thing I could think of was, “Fuck you, mom.” Because… in truth, nobody was really the same after Marianne killed herself.”

— Tori Amos, 8 June 1996 concert, Milwaukee, Wisconsin

(Source: torispokenword)

4:09 am  36 notes


Before Sunrise/Sunset/Midnight

2:39 am  1,230 notes

Something I’ve been thinking about:

Men are always remembered for what they did

Women for what they didn’t do

She never thought of herself, she worked all day, she made sure everyone was happy and comfortable, she sacrificed herself for her family

versus

He did this this and this and had her loving support

But I do want to think, especially of myself. I don’t want to be remembered for sacrifice I want to be remembered for things I did

Not some abstract concept of what makes a good person

2:37 am  6 notes

He says I’m too volatile for him. Part of me takes that as a compliment, while the other part just wants to cry.

2:45 am  1 note

VAGINA MOTHERFUCKER!!

2:31 am  10,187 notes

This is how I lie:
(all the heavy-lifting takes place in the space of second)

First, I remember to breathe. I think of the secret pure world as I know it;
Myself, out of breath in clingy athletic clothes six miles past the reservoir
Berry blood sliding down my left thigh and it is dusk and
My soul’s moss is wild and ragged and coarse
And I breathe again, a vivid mountain thought in my lungs
"Chest cogestion relief advertisement"

Then I think of him, the vampire
And the way he fingered my floral headband in his palm as we fucked
Radiant and dull; whichever one is beautiful

And I think of my trust for him, how I trust him in that extraordinary way you trust those who have clutched your breasts and stroked your nipples—
Your luminescent former lovers, your cold-handed pediatrician, your quiet, diligent mother.

I let that trust well up inside of me and drain itself out through my vagina until I am a withered, thirsty garden of a person whose eyes glint like you, and I let the lie glide out and it is even smoother than the menstrual blood and I betray no guilty cramps, no flash of a look of pain, no sweet sweat leakage through the holes of my cable-knit sweater

I know how to lie, I know how to lie so well and the way I lie to him is even more special because I simply forget there is truth. Not the truth specific to situation, but the concept altogether.

I abandon it out on the reservoir because I’ve learned the only way to live is to discard what scares you.

And the trick is to remember that,
But also not to.

5:39 pm  4 notes

“I have this idea that I don’t look like anything—everyone else looks very specific and I just kind of look like whatever. It’s not true. It’s not true! There’s a specific way that you look, and your eyes are a particular color, and your legs are some weird way or whatever, and you have to work with that. My feet are a different size than I thought they were for years, which taught me a bit about self-deception. A friend of mine was saying the other day, ‘I’ve just realized at age 32 that I’ve always been getting my shoes the wrong size.’ I was like, ‘How could you not tell?’ and he said, ‘Well, I just thought it was normal for my shoes to be slightly uncomfortable.’ I’ve had that with so many things… .

The other thing is, just as I think I have no appearance, I think I have no personality—I think that I’m totally malleable. Whatever I say is just an expression of what I feel like at a particular moment, whereas when other people say things it’s a representation of some deeply held belief essential to their identity, a belief they’ve had for a really long time and feel really confident and stable about.”

— Elif Batuman, No Regrets (n + 1, 2013)

(Source: emmaylor, via leopoldgursky)

2:20 am  67 notes

12:15 am  8,566 notes

Somewhere inside me is a merciful, forgiving person. Somewhere there is a girl who tries to understand what people are going through, who accepts that people do evil things and that desperation leads them to darker places than they ever imagined. I swear she exists, and she hurts for the repentant boy I see in front of me.

But if I saw her, I wouldn’t recognize her.

— Veronica Roth, Divergent

12:11 am  2 notes

I don’t write enough
I don’t do anything enough or all the way, anymore

12:08 am  1 note

s.t.