Waking up and listening to The Drums always makes me just a bit more happier about my day. Hopefully this good attitude of mine lasts throughout the day. Hey! At least I get a free rental from Red Box today from eating too much of Orville Redenbacher’s popcorn.
Today I made this terribly delicious concoction of garlic bread with beans. It sounds so disturbing—at least to me it does, and it tasted delectable! I just felt the need to share this because I’m just an awful cook and me making anything that tastes even remotely good is a miracle. I feel like I should be a chef.
On another note, yesterday was a bad day. But then again a good day because now I can separate the cold little bitches to the not so cold little bitches. I felt like those vulgar words were very appropriate for my feelings towards yesterday. I feel great.
“No one would take me just as I was, no one loved me; I shall love myself enough, I thought, to make up for this abandonment by everyone. Formerly, I had been quite satisfied with myself, but I had taken very little trouble to increase my self-knowledge; from now on, I would stand outside myself, watch over and observe myself; in my diary I had long conversations with myself. I was entering a world whose newness stunned me. I learned to distinguish between distress and melancholy, lack of emotion and serenity; I learned to recognize the hesitations of the heart, and its ecstasies, the splendor of great renunciations, and the subterranean murmurings of hope. I entered into exalted trances, as on those evenings when I used to gaze upon the sky full of moving clouds behind the distant blue of the hills; I was both the landscape and its beholder. I existed only through myself, and for myself… my path was clearly marked: I had to perfect, enrich and express myself in a work of art that would help others to live.” — Simone de Beauvoir.
“She seems so cool, so focused, so quiet, yet her eyes remain fixed upon the horizon. You think you know all there is to know about her immediately upon meeting her, but everything you think you know is wrong. Passion flows through her like a river of blood.
She only looked away for a moment, and the mask slipped, and you fell. All your tomorrows start here.”—Neil Gaiman, Fragile Things
Listen to teardrop by Jose Gonzales if you’re looking for a velvety-like night. Anything by Blind Pilot or the Bowerbirds. Listen to Like a River by Sharks Keep Moving—it’s one of my favorites. I listen to it when I’m fiddled between sheets and drinking my hot chocolate. I don’t know, it laces along quiet well with cold, frail nights. If you’re one of those people who don’t mind music without lyrics, listen to Evenings. Their songs are phenomenal. Ah, and Feist. Feist, Feist, Feist. & Elliott Smith. He’s some sort of God. Welp, that’s all I can think of off the top of my head.
“Her mind wanders around, always. Whenever she watches a movie or reads a book, the characters come alive in her head and they live there forever after. Whenever she sees a photograph of a beautiful place somewhere on this earth or not, she lives there for a substantial amount of time in her mind. Sometimes these places are energetic, filled with interesting people from all walks of life and full of adventures. She lived in London, Tokyo, New York City even, and Paris. Sometimes, however, they are peaceful, quiet, tranquil, like Rome’s St Peter’s square at night, or the lake of Geneva in the early dawn. The top of the Alps, a small island in the Atlantic. She moves from one place to the other in just a split second, with a look at a photograph. I wonder where she lives these days. Her body is seated in the park under a tree, her mind might be living in a tiny, dirty apartment somewhere in Moscow with all the characters from Carroll’s ‘Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland’. I would love to come over for dinner sometime, stranger.”—Random people: In reality, she has been everywhere
“Listen: I am ideally happy. My happiness is a kind of challenge. As I wander along the streets and the squares and the paths by the canal, absently sensing the lips of dampness through my worn soles, I carry proudly my ineffable happiness. The centuries will roll by, and schoolboys will yawn over the history of our upheavals; everything will pass, but my happiness , dear, my happiness will remain, in the moist reflection of a street lamp, in the cautious bend of stone steps that descend into the canal’s black waters, in the smiles of a dancing couple, in everything with which God so generously surrounds human loneliness.”— Vladimir Nabokov, Selected Letters 1940-1977
Sometimes I can’t believe how far we’ve come. It’s been such a blur—wow I can’t believe the day is almost here. I can’t stomach the feeling of how it will be when we can finally be tangled up together under seas and seas of blankets. It’ll be just like how we described it.
Not only do I like your blog (haha I found it) but I also am OBSESSED with you secretly. Ok here we go.. I got this idea from a Tumblr spam I got once lol.. I think you like me too and you were always too shy to admit it :3 go to crushmatches(dòt)com (wtf it wont let me link regular) and make an account there. Then look up the profile 'gottagetme19' (me obviously) I left body pictures.. if you can guess who I am hit me up and we'll hang soon. You need a C C but its free
I had a dream I was in a store and I got a call from my dad saying to not come home because there was a tsunami in the house so I stayed in the city the store was in and for some reason I found my bike and rode around the city and found a house that was exactly like mine so I went it in it and the interior was exactly like my house except in my room I had my old bunk bed and then I saw two versions of me one was a Donna that was 5 years old and one was about 6 months old and they said they were me and they wanted me to take them back to where they came from so I tried to leave with them on my bike but then their mother came home who was Winona Ryder and she had shoulder length blonde hair and her eyes were a tint of red she looked insane and as I was riding away with the two versions of me she tried to catch up to me in her car and she shot my leg and I felt like I should’ve felt anguish but I didn’t so I kept riding but then she went to my neighbors house and she was about to shoot all them until somehow her gun dropped and one my neighbors got the gun and was about to shoot her (we were on a soccer field right now for some reason) but then five year old me acted like she really liked her mother and hugged her so it could some like “oh don’t kill her, she has children” and yeah it ended like that.
“We never even kissed or looked into each other’s eyes. Our lips just trespassed on those inner labyrinths hidden deep within our ears, filled them with the private music of wicked words, hers in many languages, mine in the off color of my only tongue, until as our tones shifted, and our consonants spun and squealed, rattled faster, hesitated, raced harder, syllables soon melting with groans, or moans finding purchase in new words, or old words, or made-up words, until we gathered up our heat and refused to release it, enjoying too much the dark language we had suddenly stumbled upon, craved to, carved to, not a communication really but a channeling of our rumored desires, hers for all I know gone to Black Forests and wolves, mine banging back to a familiar form, that great revenant mystery I still could only hear the shape of, which in spite of our separate lusts and individual cries still continued to drive us deeper into stranger tones, our mutual desire to keep gripping the burn fueled by sound.”—Mark Z. Danielewski (via freins)