July 2012
46 posts
“Every city has a sex and an age which have nothing to do with demography. Rome...”
– John Berger
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My breath smells like Oreos and I know there are chocolate trails in the corners of my lips, but I’m beyond caring because your fingers are cupped around my mouth blowing smoke into it, and I watch your eyes crinkle around the edges, like you’d be smiling if the feeling could reach your mouth. There is something massively fucked up about this, I think my mother would say in clean housewife...
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Sometimes I get weirdly, indescribably proud to be a human being. It’s kind of stupid, but it’s the best feeling, if you’ve ever felt it.
the hardest part about being a feminist is knowing that one day soon i will grow 15 feet and my arms will shrink and i will become a t-rex with an insatiable appetite for man blood
and there’s nothing i can do to stop it
the transformation has already begun i can feel it in my bones
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I feel so disconnected lately, and I haven’t been doing anything productive and I find myself crying a lot because it’s stupid and I know everyone feels this way but I just feel like I’m missing out on something when it comes to people. I have people I can talk to but nobody that’s really on my wavelength and I don’t know aren’t there supposed to be people out...
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[[MORE]]currently having a mental breakdown on behalf of Jordyn Weiber and her not making it into the All-Around finals like seriously what the fuck
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Maybe I should just change my wardrobe to entirely black items. Not in a punk or goth way, in like, a classy way.
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“Yet the one I think of most often,
the one that dangles from me like a locket,...”
– Billy Collins, excerpt from “Marginalia”
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Inkblots
Here is a breathing body With a heartbeat and A quick glance in the mirror above the stove And eyes swollen but I swear it’s just allergies Because I have nothing to be sad about
(There’s just this boredom that starts deep In my stomach, like hunger but with a staler taste)
Sometimes I think life is only a Rorschach inkblot test Splotches that are supposed to represent limitless possibility For...
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“In a way, literature is truer than life,” he said to himself. “On paper, you say...”
– Simone de Beauvoir, The Mandarins
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5 am incoherence
Sometimes I think I can live off of other people’s love—even the love of people who don’t exist, people who are only in books or movies or TV or something. It’s like, if I can watch people long enough and know that they’re happy together I don’t care at all if I’m not happy together with someone. I mean, I’ve never really cared all that much. I think...
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My father plays these audiobooks on long car rides So we don’t have to talk to each other And I pretend to sleep because I’m supposed to be above mindless crime thrillers I always yell at him that those mass-market paperbacks are The death of real literature But secretly I close my eyes and enjoy them And when we stop for gas I count the seconds under my breath
And I suppose my relationship with...
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It’s hot and I’m lonely.
“Writing is something you do alone. It’s a profession for introverts who...”
– John Green
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Watching somebody else sleep is so weird, especially when you wake up in the middle of the night and just look over at them, at 3 a.m. when he/she is unconscious and should be free from any prying glances from another human being and it’s just so strange, it’s like an invasion of privacy. I hate when people see me when I’m asleep, but I love watching other people.
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I wish I knew people that did things, you know? Didn’t let high school get in their way of living these big, insane, extraordinary lives. I wish there was a group of kids—Freaks, or somebody like Nikki Reed from Thirteen—who just would grab me and initiate me into their fold for no particular reason besides the fact that I seemed genuine or brave or something, and take me along...
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I wish I had a close friend who was a writer.
The Way Things Are by Fiona Apple
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In the desert, by Stephen Crane
In the desert I saw a creature, naked, bestial, Who, squatting upon the ground, Held his heart in his hands, And ate of it. I said: “Is it good, friend?” “It is bitter - bitter,” he answered; “But I like it Because it is bitter, And because it is my heart.”
“Maybe I’m writing this book so I won’t have to talk anymore.”
– Edouard Levé (tr. Lorin Stein), Autoportrait
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I am drinking flat soda but I think It’s getting me drunk You’re a pliant person, and I’ve used you enough You’re the type that sleeps on floors And waits around for me to stop being so immature ‘Cause I like shiny things, flashy things Stupid things (but you’d never tell me so)
I’m the type to check my face in the reflection of the toaster Just to make sure I’m still there I’m so selfish, so...
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Sonnet LXXIII, by Pablo Neruda
Maybe you’ll remember that razor-faced man who slipped out from the dark like a blade and - before we realized - knew what was there: he saw the smoke and concluded fire.
The pallid woman with black hair rose like a fish from the abyss, and the two of them built up a contraption, armed to the teeth, against love. Man and woman, they felled mountains and gardens, then went down to...
So writing…was a thing…I used to do…
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Reread “For Esme—With Love and Squalor” and it is legitimately perfect. (I’ve always thought Salinger’s short stories kick The Catcher in the Rye’s ass).
“I don’t know: perhaps it’s a dream, all a dream. (That would surprise me.) I’ll...”
– Samuel Beckett, The Unnameable
Anonymous asked: Have you ever been in love?
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“The truth is I’ve never fooled anyone. I’ve let people fool themselves. They...”
– Marilyn Monroe
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It’s okay to be sad, she told me when I was little. But maybe what I needed to hear more…maybe I needed to know From someone old, someone wise that
It’s okay not to be.
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Tonight I sit on Mars all by myself. I am drinking wine by candlelight in a black dress and my lipstick leaves red rings on the glass. I try to ignore the dull ache, try to forget that this will only ever be a party for one.
“A very beautiful and somewhat haughty woman once called my brother in the middle...”
– Elissa Wald
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I. ‘Start from the beginning,’ you say And your voice is a trance ‘I want you to trust me.’ It’s not that simple but You’re the kind of person who Knows what to do with your hands When you’re just sitting still So I decide to try.
II. “I remember being born. I know— My mother always told me it was impossible To see that far back into ourselves, Said I must’ve found the home movie, Or something....
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There’s nothing in here. It’s wide and echoey and I’m so far removed from feelings I can’t even make any up. I haven’t really written in a week and it’s weird and I feel dizzy and there should be something I need to say but I’m out of practice and I forget how to find it, let alone how to say it. I guess that’s a pattern recently because I can’t seem to say any of what I mean lately, which is dumb...
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How do people say things like ‘forever’? Do you believe the words while you’re saying them? How is it even possible to believe them?
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“If you grew up in a house where you weren’t loved, you didn’t know...”
– Jeffrey Eugenides, The Marriage Plot 