Was going to go to the gym but fell asleep instead.
This must be the universes way of telling me I am already gorgeous.
Will read instead, beauty is nothing without smarts.
(via scout) I’ve found that telling other people all the things you have to do this week is about as annoying as listing everything you ate today and describing your dreams. But we still tell each other and I guess it’s a great exercise in friendship generosity. One of those things were you totally listen to other peoples’ recounting of their dreams and their to-do lists literally only because you need someone to listen to yours.
Also I think one of the greatest social handicaps is when you have a big ol’ crush on somebody, and you keep bringing them up to your friends constantly, “Joey likes turkey sandwiches but only on the weekends, did I tell you that?” NO AND I DON’T CARE. But you gotta tell it, it’s pressing, you’re at brunch and they’re all you can think about. And even as you say it, you know you’re doing The Thing. You know it’s going to be the dumbest story ever told, you know your friends won’t care and they’ll just pity laugh, but you can’t help but tell them about Joey’s bike or Joey’s hat or the way Joey parts his hair when he gets out of the shower.
I have this problem SO BAD and I always have. You can ask my mom, who I have regaled with infinite detail every interaction across gender lines since about 1995. Whoever I like at the time becomes a topic of every conversation we have, and sometimes she will ask for “The <guy’s name> Report.” Oh, the shame. I really feel bad for anyone who knows me, as they also know every fucking detail and every little thing every guy I have ever really liked has ever said.
So to bring it full circle, a few weeks ago I was home and in the car with my mom, and we were silent, late to a wedding. And all of the sudden she turns to me and goes, “Meaghan did I tell you So-and-So’s boys were in the gifted program?”
Here was my chance, to reciprocate the years of bullshit she endured to me. The eons of pretending to care. This was perhaps my maturity test. A test of my adulthood. Generosity. Sympathy. Compassion. Faced with the ultimate reflection of what I am afraid is my greatest personality flaw, my entire body filled with the fury of 10k men and my jaw went tense and I said, “No, because I don’t care,” in the snottiest brattiest most 13 yr old tone that has escaped my mouth in 10 years. I stared in the rearview mirror, proclaimed how perfect my sideswept bang looked, “LOOK AT THIS FABULOUS SHIT, MOM” and put on more lipstick and decided I deserved that zit and I deserved to be going to this wedding with my mother and I am the worst daughter in the WORLD.
My friends call this mentionitis.
“Cold men destroy women” my mother wrote me years later. “They woo them with something personable that they bring out for show, something annexed to their souls like a fake greenhouse, lead you in, and you think you see life and vitality and sun and greenness, and then when you love them, they lead you out into their real soul, a drafty, cavernous, empty ballroom, inexorably arched and vaulted and mocking you with its echoes-you hear all you have sacrificed, all you have given, landing with a loud clunk. They lock the greenhouse and you are as tiny as a figure in an architect’s drawing, a faceless splotch, a blur of stick limbs abandoned in some voluminous desert of stone.” —
Lorrie Moore, Self-Help (via iamjen)
LOOOOOOOOOOL. Am I right, ladies? Man, that’s a literary burn right there. God do I love this bitch.
(via mustanghalle)
I cut this out of a magazine when I was 12 or so and it has come with me to Florida for high school, to Indiana for college, and now to New York for…livin’. It keeps falling off of the wall over my desk, proclaiming either futility or urgency.
Out of that same magazine, I tore an ad, I am no long sure for what, that was this drawing of legs that had, “THIGHS, thighs! Oh, the worries of thighs…” scrawled artfully around it. It looked very romantic.
It seems very terrible now to think that I was worried about my thighs when I was 12, but terrible or no, every night I’d lie in bed and stare at the side of my desk where I had scotch taped things like this ad, hanging right next to the liner notes from my Lilith Fair cd and a rebus I had made of the lyrics to Gangsta’s paradise. My breathing would deepen before I thought about all the boys I was excited to see at school the next day, thought of all the things I wanted and the things I thought I may never get to do, reviewed my sorrow for all of the types of girls I would never be, weighed how much being who I really am both limited and freed me, even, especially, then. I considered my thighs. I worried about them; for them. Who would love me when I had these dark circles under my eyes and my mother told me I was too young for makeup and hadn’t she given me these thighs anyways? Did she not doom us both to a life of fighting to be loved that the girls whose thighs did not touch when they stood upright found free-flowing and abundant? I wanted repayment in lipstick and concealer and t-shirts from The Gap to wear on no-uniform days. I wanted a chance.
I remember very distinctly when I stopped worrying. Like so many moments of intuitive validity, it began with copying part of an ee cummings poem into my diary (I imagine my printer was out of ink, like it is now, for being out of ink is my perpetual state of being. Printers! Oh, the worries of printers!):
breasts will be breasts and thighs will be thighs
deeds cannot dream what dreams can do
-time is a tree (this life one leaf)
but love is the sky and i am for you
just so long and long enough(motherfucker).
via getthatlook
- Who is sleeping with the men who make kissy sounds at women who pass them on the street? Who is validating this? I bet there was one woman who blew one street kisser one time and then that guy told all his friends, and they told theirs, and now guys’re all like, GUYS, THIS IS HOW YOU GET WOMEN TO LIKE YOU: YOU MAKE A SOUND LIKE YOU’RE KISSING THEM WHEN THEY WALK PAST YOU ON THEIR WAY TO WORK. IT REMINDS THEM OF MAKING OUT AND THEN THEY WANT TO MAKE OUT WITH YOU and then there you have it, one woman’s carelessness has ruined it for everybody for all of time. Like people who feed pigeons. Or Digg things.
I have the raddest wife & son ever. One of their many collaborations…
it is one of those days today. the kind where you want to listen to sad songs in the hope that somehow listening to other people express the same emotions you are unable to express will somehow (inexplicably) make it all better.
those days where your heart beats in time to the song and you still, still aren’t sure why you’re crying, only that the tears won’t seem to stop.
and deep down, inside that little piece of yourself that lies to the other part (yes that one),
deep down there
you know its because of him.
I am sick and my nose is runny and it is doing that one thing where every time I breathe there is a faint whistling note which kind of lingers in the air. But it is New Years Eve and in the grand tradition of parties everywhere I must press on.