On the way home I saw a squirrel and I wondered why, exactly, our lives are so much more meaningful than any other mammal. Then I realized it’s probably not. Because I’m there, and I’m sitting in traffic, just getting out of a ten hour work day so I can get a meager paycheck to support my education which will lead to a job with a slightly less meager paycheck and then I’ll still die. Where’s the meaning? I guess maybe love. But I have a feeling that love is just a whole lot of hormones with a little bit of neediness.
I have this theory that there are people you like to laugh with and people you like to have sex with and if you find someone who fulfills both of those things, well, that’s the closest thing to love you’ll find. Coming from a young woman who has never been in love, my argument would not hold any water and so I’ve never told anyone that. I couldn’t really imagine truly wanting to marry someone I like laughing with because chances are you will grow to silently resent each other and the anchors you’ve shoved on each others’ fingers. And every memory of every laugh you’ve ever shared with that person will be swiss-cheesed with the realization that they fucking suck (after they’ve fucked & sucked).
I would do a lot better if I was alive 1000 years ago, I think.
Those goddamn, fucking squirrels…
100000% correct. Everybody follow Caragh, she’s like a robot me. Better, faster, stronger.
i’m in love, and i had a good day so i’m not feeling cynical like usual, but that doesn’t mean some part of me can’t still appreciate the realization here and the writing.
if you haven’t seen it yet, you should definitely watch The Life and Times of Harvey Milk (the original documentary on which, i’m assuming, Milk was based, and Hulu has it for free!) i watched this as a sophomore in college, in a gender and sexuality in literature class, and remember crying for hours after, wondering how i’d gone my whole life without knowing about Harvey Milk, and feeling so sad that people like this, brave and beautiful ppl, are taken from us before they can do all the good they can.
“Seriously. Jesus started the whole wait-three-days thing — he waited three days to come back to life. It was perfect. If he’d have only waited one day, a lot of people wouldn’t have even heard that he died. They’d be all, ‘hey, Jesus, what up?’ And Jesus would probably be like, ‘what up? I died, yesterday!’ Then they would be all, ‘uh, you look pretty alive to me, dude.’ And then Jesus would have to explain how he was resurrected and how it was a miracle. And then the dude would be like, ‘uh OK, whatever you say, bro.’ He’s not going to come back on a Saturday — everybody’s busy, doing chores, working their looms, trimming their beards. No, he waits the exact right number of days: Three. Plus, it’s Sunday, so everyone’s already in church already. They’re all in there, ‘oh no, Jesus is dead.’ Then, bam, he bursts through the back door, runs up the aisle, everybody’s totally psyched, and FYI: That’s when he invented the high five. Three days. We wait three days, because that’s how long Jesus wanted us to wait. True story.”—
“I’m a supporter of gay rights. And not a closet supporter either. From the time I was a kid, I have never been able to understand attacks upon the gay community. There are so many qualities that make up a human being… by the time I get through with all the things that I really admire about people, what they do with their private parts is probably so low on the list that it is irrelevant.”—Paul Newman (via bellabenevolence) (via fuckyeahpaulnewman)
my favorite valentine that i ever got was from a boy named jay. we were in high school. we were not even dating. he came over on valentine’s day, after school, and gave me a potato with a toothpick stuck in it. glued carefully to the toothpick was a cardboard cut out of a heart. and that was it. we never kissed. i think that was in part due to the fact that i had the beginnings of strep throat and i proudly showed him the white puss pockets in the back corner of my throat. we did homework. we watched TV. he showed me how many pens he could fit in his hair (he had a huge fro) and that was about it. the potato stayed in my fridge for months. maybe over a year. it grew little green arms that curled around themselves, praying almost. it stayed plump and healthy for a surprisingly long time. but one day, when all the moisture was gone, it shriveled up. the shriveling process was a very quick one. i still did not throw it away. luckily, i grew up in a house where aunt Diane’s home made Marion berry jam from 1998 still sits this day wedged between an empty bottle of salad dressing and left overs of some unknown origin covered in a fine downy white fuzz. finally, when the brown freckles that dotted the once proud potato grew into huge, gaping black caverns, i knew it was time to part with my treasured gift.
jay is now married. his wife may have a nice ring on her finger, but i still have the toothpick with the heart. i think we all know who came out on top here.
i am in love with this story.
i have the horrible habit of keeping everything too, but will be glad to toss some of my mementos from past relationships when the time is right. my room at home sometimes feels like a mausoleum because of all these things collecting dust.
If I learned anything in the last several years of being away from home and moving back and forth from different states and across country, it is how to pack and move incredibly efficiently.
My room is getting new carpeting tomorrow and I managed to move everything I own in less than an hour and a half. And believe me…i have a lot more stuff than i would like to admit.
um, i think you need to move to LA and do this for me this summer. i hate packing and moving, and if you’re so good at it you might as well come and visit me, help me, and get paid for it…? yes? i could buy you a ticket to the Tegan/Sara/New Porn/Death Cab lovefest!
“It’s genetics, it’s not a choice. There’s no fucking sixteen year old heterosexual boy, confused, socially awkward, acne scarred kid sitting around in his bedroom going, ‘God, everyone hates me and the girls I like don’t like me and, um, I don’t know what to do, and the thought of having sex with another man is physically repelling to me…but you know? maybe it’s time I invited even more non-stop harassment to my life. Yeah that’ll be fun. Things have been going so easy, why don’t I introduce the concept of getting the shit kicked out of me for no good reason by a bunch of fucking retards whenever they want?” Yeah that’s good. That’s a fun choice to make. That’s a choice a lot of people are making. No, it’s genetic.”—
So I see some ish on my dash that I don’t really get, but I just wanted to say that there was no hidden message in any of my song posts. I actually was going for a fun theme, but am now worried I may have entered the passive-aggressive Olympics without my own knowledge. So, it’s just a song I like. I’ve posted it on every blog I’ve ever had. It was just straight up fun. We should have more of that. Fun, that is. I am just clarifying because I don’t want to inadvertently hurt someone’s feelings.
I would attend the Passive-Aggressive Olympics if someone cared to organise such an event.
i would definitely place in the Passive-Aggressive Olympics. if not win the whole f***ing thing. i am an ace at using my e-life to send passive aggressive messages to my real life. i’m trying to stop though.
i’d like to add that it’s also willful. well, at least at first. while “dying” is a fairly passive process (there are those of the opinion that every day is a gradual procession towards death – nothing you can do about it) smoking can be considered a choice to speed up that process. (ironically, once the smoker becomes addicted, there may not be a choice in the matter, will power weakens and they have to smoke.)
anyway, i agree with the main message. if you smoke you must be a masochist or an idiot. it’s gross and it’s killing you. and you’re buttressing the tobacco companies who are profiting from yr demise and exploiting yr addictions to chemical pleasures.
“That was the difference between him and, say, Elvis or Sinatra, who had simply been sexy. The thinking had been “I’m young, fuck me.” Dylan was more, “I’m young, fuck you.”—Robyn Hitchock (via dailydoseofdylan)
sometimes my heart aches so much i feel like salty tears are filling up my stomach and i’m going to vomit all my tender insides out.
lying down in bed tonight, one project down and two more to go, but no kind of warmth around to draw comfort from, i feel miserable and wonder, what’s the point? what’s the good of all this work if there’s nothing – no pleasant hello, no loving looks – to look forward to after all of it?
this song made me think of you, brandon. i think you posted a lyric once, or a poem(?), that made this sound so familiar just now.
"Have you ever thought about what protects our hearts? Just a cage of rib bones and other various parts. So it’s fairly simple to cut right through the mess, And to stop the muscle that makes us confess.
And we are so fragile, And our cracking bones make noise, And we are just, Breakable, breakable, breakable girls and boys.”
Today, I was bored at my job at Home Depot. I got a bar code tattoo 3 weeks ago and thought it would be funny to scan it. I’m a $5.98 160z claw hammer. FML
OH NOES! Your dumbass tattoo actually scanned something more retarded than your tattoo! What ever will you do?! Maybe you should thought of that BEFORE you scarred yourself with random lines. Next you’re going to find out your Chinese tattoo of “Serenity” actually means “Easy Lay” and be shocked. YAFM.
someone seriously needs to start a tumblr just about stupid-ass tattoos. i think on this tumblr alone i have enough to give whoever wants this project their first week of material.
this gives me reason to believe Nature has just cause for wanting to X us out.
I hope the subtitle to the FML book is “How problems caused by my own idiocy, sense of entitlement, and/or lack of common sense allow me to feel sorry for myself.”
But,like, pithier than that. FML: Someone Call the Waaaambulence. FML: Please Have Your Tiny Violins At the Ready. Because if there is anything that deserves to be published, it’s a collection of first world kvetching.
Today, was my graduation from a prestigious university. In two days I start working at a hot dog stand. FML
Yeah man, that is really rough. Having a job and shit.
Oh god, there’s going to be a book? Gross. File under “Bitching, moaning and whinging by privileged idiots.”