there seems to be a real communal feeling in this fatburger

at least among the employees. none of the customers seem to feel welcome, to be honest, but if only one of us gets to feel good in here i’m glad it’s them

johndarnielle:

shrimpojess:

clittyslickers:

very into charts about naps

Nap charts guys.

want the NASA nap, but fear I would get stressed out by its proximity time-wise to the Bad Nap

this is all well and good but i believe one must respect naps as autonomous things and wake up when they are over. this is delicate as you must discern the difference between waking up because your nap is over and waking up for other reasons, but the work is worth it both for your sake and for the sake of naps that visit you in your life

johndarnielle:

shrimpojess:

clittyslickers:

very into charts about naps

Nap charts guys.

want the NASA nap, but fear I would get stressed out by its proximity time-wise to the Bad Nap

this is all well and good but i believe one must respect naps as autonomous things and wake up when they are over. this is delicate as you must discern the difference between waking up because your nap is over and waking up for other reasons, but the work is worth it both for your sake and for the sake of naps that visit you in your life

If you were wondering about my heart,
it is not generous, but it meets my needs, which are small and petty
and full to the brim with un-lit fireworks.

-Sasha Fletcher, “Ask We Questions I’ll Tell You No Lies” (via Swarm)

goddamn man sasha fletcher

(via sorryeveryone)

i am going to stop apologizing for reblogging myself because i am tired of the idea that saying things (or pointing to them or quoting them, as the case may be) on the internet means they’re only worth saying once

(via sorryeveryone)

This isn’t a story where love is heroic, and it isn’t a story where we sit around waiting for everything to work out. In this story the heart is at times a tender sort of mistake.
Sasha Fletcher, down by the tracks, or, we all make a certain kind of sound in the dark (via doyouwanttobesaved)
Please understand. I’ve never been able to tell
what’s worth more—what I want or what I have.
Stephen Dunn (via rarararambles)
CAN’T WAIT

CAN’T WAIT

(via pankmagazine)

Drew leans over and gives Sasha a wet kiss, and you can tell the hash is getting him horny because you feel it too—it makes your teeth ache in a way that will only let up if you hit someone or get hit. In high school you’d get in fights when you felt like this, but no one will fight with you now—the fact that you hacked open your wrists with a box cutter three months ago and nearly bled to death seems to be a deterrent. It functions like a force field, paralyzing everyone in range with an encouraging smile on their lips. You want to hold up a mirror and ask, How exactly are those smiles supposed to help me?

Jennifer Egan, “Out of Body” The Best American Short Stories 2011

this has been sitting in my drafts for a long time because i’ve been waiting for a moment when it felt immediate and relevant, but that’s not really where my life is at at the moment which is a good thing so anyway here it is because despite not being where I’m at it is still a hell of a thing

kimberlyalidio:

curdspluswhey: Spicer’s cute broadside, “RABBITS DO NOT KNOW WHAT THEY ARE”

wait i can make broadsides from my aphorisms

i got aphorisms for fuckin’ days

(that’s not one of them don’t worry)

kimberlyalidio:

curdspluswheySpicer’s cute broadside, “RABBITS DO NOT KNOW WHAT THEY ARE”

wait i can make broadsides from my aphorisms

i got aphorisms for fuckin’ days

(that’s not one of them don’t worry)

(via pankmagazine)

dynamicafrica:

Some things just can’t be said enough times.

it occurs to me that sesame street has been beating what is effectively the same drum for 45 years

it occurs to me that sesame street will beat that drum for 45 more, if that’s what it takes

(via trillwavefeminism)

Charles Bowden died last week

From Bowden’s Murder City, emphasis mine:

The present is always acceptable. Period. The city teems with shacks, poor people, dust, violence, and music booming out of open doorways. Women wear lipstick, children scurry past wearing clean clothes, buses rumble down the street spewing black exhaust, and the hours of the day slide by and it is life and it is normal and people cling to it one and all and it is good, good enough to make a life out of and to cherish. The stories float over the city, stories of murders, of executions, of rapes, robberies, stories of men protesting, stories of women holding vigils. At the bridge linking Juarez and El Paso, a memorial stands to murdered and vanished women, pink ribbons fluttering in the breeze, each ribbon bearing the name of a soul lost to life. And yet, each day, men huddle at the base of the memorial hawking newspapers, and cars line up to cross and the little tower of pink ribbons becomes invisible. I stand there, I stare at it, and I still cannot see it. It is not part of the city, it is part of an effort to imagine a different city and this effort is ignored because the present is acceptable. Period.


Everyone knows the facts and yet the facts slip from everyone’s hands. Walk a hundred feet from a body on the pavement - the blood puddled around the skull - and it never happened, the young girls smile, the traffic zooms past without slowing, the city beats on and on, and the dead no longer exist and soon the memory of the dead will be a rare bit of fact polished and cherished by the family and ignored or forgotten by everyone else. This is a survival tactic and it crosses all class lines. This is the fruit of living without history. This is the result of amnesia in television, radio, and print. This is the sweet drug that comes from fantasy. The authorities are real. The police enforce the laws. The courts function. The army protects. The streetlights sweep evil from the night. There is a consensus here to believe the unbelievable, to insist that things are normal - the government is in charge, the incidents, should they even come to notice, are accidents, little imperfections in the tapestry that is life and this tapestry is sound and beautiful to both the eye and to the hand as it strokes the elaborate weave of lives that make up the city.


It took me a long time to accept that the present is always acceptable. Period.” 

I don’t think is completely on point, but it is an idea that bears consideration, and if you take that skull and those few hundred feet as metaphorical or just representative of larger things, the whole thing becomes rather chilling.

chelseahodson:

Inventory #613: The Holy Spirit of Life by Joe Wenderoth
——-
REGARDING PRESENT TENSE
I have for some time now been seeking to create for myself the sense that I am alive. It isn’t easy. My effort, in fact, is almost exclusively humiliating, not only in terms of its amazingly complex history of failures, but also by way of the dismal barren camp it forces me to call home.
—Joe Wenderoth

chelseahodson:

Inventory #613: The Holy Spirit of Life by Joe Wenderoth

——-

REGARDING PRESENT TENSE

I have for some time now been seeking to create for myself the sense that I am alive. It isn’t easy. My effort, in fact, is almost exclusively humiliating, not only in terms of its amazingly complex history of failures, but also by way of the dismal barren camp it forces me to call home.

—Joe Wenderoth

brandolicious:

Left: Beyonce’s backdrop from her 2014 MTV VMA performance.

Right: Brooke Candy’s music video “Opulence” released April 2014.

I say again, is there a word for public, unwilling muse?

zaynalpayne:

is there a word for public, unwilling muse?