So I think it’s fairly clear that this blog is done. I thought a lot about how to wrap it up because THIS IS TWO YEARS OF MY LIFE AMIRITE but then I woke up this morning and was like, “Fuck it.”
So Bye Bye Baby.
(Source: tastefullyoffensive, via callingmoon)
(Source: l-0-v-e-s-u-c-k-s, via wishiwasaudrey)
We do not wish to be loved blindly; we wish to be loved for specific reasons. And if another professes to love us for reasons that do not bear any relation to our self-perceptions or values or standards, we do not feel gratified, we do not even feel really loved, because we do not feel visible; we do not feel that the other person is responding to us.
—From The Psychology of Romantic Love by Nathaniel Branden, who’s mostly an asshole but I’ll give him this point. Also, have I mentioned that I’m so in love I feel constantly like weeping and/or vomiting? Also, have I mentioned that I’m only keeping this blog going because I need somewhere to post quotes I like?
Class denial is extraordinarily convenient. After all, what better way to deflect attention from the fact that huge sums of money are being shoveled into the bank accounts of the wealthy, while the wages of the average worker stagnate? The expulsion of ‘class’ from the nation’s vocabulary by Thatcherism and New Labour has ensured minimal scrutiny of the manifestly unjust distribution of wealth and power in modern Britain.
—Owen Jones, from Chavs: The Demonization of the Working Class.
(via mortalityishypothetical)
You’re the only girl I’ve seen for a very long time that actually did look like something blooming.
—F. Scott Fitzgerald, Tender is the Night (via freecocaine)
(Source: fitzgeraldquotes, via emmyeccentric)
EST LNDN.
(Source: fyeahmovieclub, via frickyeah1990s)
Fuck Yeah, Poetry!: Gacela of Unforeseen Love
No one understood the perfume
of the dark magnolia of your womb.
Nobody knew that you tormented
a hummingbird of love between your teeth.A thousand Persian little horses fell asleep
in the plaza with moon of your forehead,
while through four nights I embraced
your waist, enemy…
(Source: deicides)
The curious thing about “smoker” as a label of identity is its mutability. I could decide tomorrow not to be one anymore. So why not pretend today? To take control of their lives, people tell themselves stories about the person they want to be. It’s the special privilege of the smoker, who at times feels so strongly the resolve to quit that it’s as if he’d quit already, to be given irrefutable evidence that these stories aren’t necessarily true: here are the butts in the ashtray, here is the smell in the hair.
—Jonathan Franzen, who is also a social smoker/working smoker, or at least was in 1996, when it is safe to say I was not yet any kind of smoker, from “Sifting the Ashes.”
In a coast-to-coast, shag-carpeted imperial bedroom, we could all just be messes and save ourselves the trouble of pretending. But who wants to live in a pajama-party world?
—Jonathan Franzen, from “Imperial Bedroom.”
(Source: erikonakaoappreciation, via yohjihatesfashion)
(Source: uproxx, via thenewbeats)
I thought we would be the most perfect union: the happiest couple around. Not that love is a competition. But I don’t understand the point of being together if you’re not the happiest.
—Amy Dunne, a fictional psychopath, expressing my feelings exactly, in Gillian Flyn’s Gone Girl, which I bought for $30 at LAX and it was totally worth it.
