You want to know what it was like?
It was like my whole life had a fever.
Whole acres of me were on fire.
The sun talked dirty in my ear all night.
I couldn’t drive past a wheatfield without doing it violence.
I couldn’t even look at a bridge.
I used to go out in the brush sometimes,
So far out there no one could hear me,
And just burn.
I felt all right then.
I couldn’t hurt anyone else.
I was just a pillar of fire.
It wasn’t the burning so much as the loneliness.
It wasn’t the loneliness so much as the fear of being alone.
Christ look at you pouring from the rocks.
You’re so cold you’re boiling over.
You’ve got stars in your hair.
I don’t want to be around you.
I don’t want to drink you in.
I want to walk into the heart of you
And never walk back out.

Nico Alvarado
Tim Riggins Speaks of Waterfalls”  (via sashayed)

(via sashayed)



New Haven, Connecticut 

Grand Unified Theory of Female Pain ›

These girls aren’t wounded so much as post-​wounded, and I see their sisters everywhere. They’re over it. I am not a melodramatic person. God help the woman who is. What I’ll call “post-​wounded” isn’t a shift in deep feeling (we understand these women still hurt) but a shift away from wounded affect: These women are aware that “woundedness” is overdone and overrated. They are wary of melodrama, so they stay numb or clever instead. Post-​wounded women make jokes about being wounded or get impatient with women who hurt too much. The post-​wounded woman conducts herself as if preempting certain accusations: Don’t cry too loud; don’t play victim. Don’t ask for pain meds you don’t need; don’t give those doctors another reason to doubt. Post-​wounded women fuck men who don’t love them and then they feel mildly sad about it, or just blasé about it; they refuse to hurt about it or to admit they hurt about it—​or else they are endlessly self-​aware about it, if they do allow themselves this hurting.

The post-​wounded posture is claustrophobic: jadedness, aching gone implicit, sarcasm quick on the heels of anything that might look like self-​pity. I see it in female writers and their female narrators, troves of stories about vaguely dissatisfied women who no longer fully own their feelings. Pain is everywhere and nowhere. Post-​wounded women know that postures of pain play into limited and outmoded conceptions of womanhood. Their hurt has a new native language spoken in several dialects: sarcastic, jaded, opaque; cool and clever. They guard against those moments when melodrama or self-​pity might split their careful seams of intellect, expose the shame of self-​absorption without self-​awareness. 

I know these dialects because I have spoken them; I know these post-​wounded narrators because I have written them. I wonder now: What shame are they sculpted from?

(via amazonpoodle)


I know that guys can be sports fans too but it gets so annoying when it’s seems as if they only go to games to get drunk. If you don’t know anything about the sport, just don’t talk. Stop yelling at the players to shoot. They talk so loud about the stupidest things and it’s embarrassing. And why show up in that guys jersey? He’d never go for you lol. Just the other day I heard a man say “Doesn’t Bobby Ryan play for Anaheim?” and I’m just like god go watch Real Housewives of the OC seems more your speed, bud. Like this is why I can’t take any male sports fan seriously. It’s nice when some hot guy is wearing my favourite team’s shirt but the chances of him actually knowing what he’s talking about are so low. 

I know that some of them do actually know the roster and stuff but the majority just wanna seem manly or impress girls or they don’t seem to get that no matter how much you love the guy, he’s a superstar athlete and probably wouldn’t sleep with you, so maybe stop trying. 

(via ryanterese)


Robert Motherwell, Open No. 122 in Scarlet and Blue  (1969)

(via cavetocanvas)

Title: This Is The Last Time Artist: The National 25,713 plays

Oh, when I lift you up
You feel like a hundred times yourself
I wish everybody knew
What’s so great about you…

(via remydantons)

And then one student said that happiness is what happens when you go to bed on the hottest night of the summer, a night so hot you can’t even wear a tee-shirt and you sleep on top of the sheets instead of under them, although try to sleep is probably more accurate. And then at some point late, late, late at night, say just a bit before dawn, the heat finally breaks and the night turns into cool and when you briefly wake up, you notice that you’re almost chilly, and in your groggy, half-consciousness, you reach over and pull the sheet around you and just that flimsy sheet makes it warm enough and you drift back off into a deep sleep. And it’s that reaching, that gesture, that reflex we have to pull what’s warm - whether it’s something or someone - toward us, that feeling we get when we do that, that feeling of being sad in the world and ready for sleep, that’s happiness.

Paul Schmidtberger, Design Flaws of the Human Condition (via quotethat)

(via mistresscurvy)


cat stuck in a bathtub

(via colorfuldripdrop)

Anonymous asked: Charlene Dill, a 32-year-old mother of three, working three jobs, just died because she couldn't get access to healthcare. Expanded Medicaid, which would have saved her, was blocked by the Republican administration of Florida. Hey, remember when the GOP was opposed to "Death Panels"? Well, what the fuck would you call this, then?


Republicans are garbage, their opposition to universal healthcare is sick and disgusting, and by voting for these people, you are complicit in the same.