story qday x5d

Beaded curtains. Because this is a hippie household. #decor

Tue, 18 Jun 2013 16:33:22 -0400

Beaded curtains. Because this is a hippie household. #decor

I’m a beets and potatoes kinda girl. #food #dinner

Mon, 17 Jun 2013 20:11:24 -0400

I’m a beets and potatoes kinda girl. #food #dinner

I am instagramming my new French press and coffee grinder. I...

Sun, 16 Jun 2013 09:15:07 -0400

I am instagramming my new French press and coffee grinder. I don’t think I can say I’m not a hipster anymore. #fancypants #coffee

#yellowcar #nympheline

Fri, 14 Jun 2013 16:01:41 -0400

#yellowcar #nympheline

stuckinabucket: backstagebethy: bluelightseven: In today’s...

Fri, 14 Jun 2013 11:37:51 -0400

stuckinabucket:

backstagebethy:

bluelightseven:

In today’s edition of “Birds are weird but blue birds are even weirder if that’s possible:” the blue-footed booby

(Every part of this photo is weird. The front bird, the back bird, the facial expressions, the feets…)

Is the one in the back laying an egg?

It’s brooding. (Like, the actual sort, not the moody antihero sort.)

My first-ever tattoo was of a blue footed booby.

lalondes: i have a new favourite twitter

Fri, 14 Jun 2013 10:34:36 -0400

lalondes:

i have a new favourite twitter

assholedisney: CAN WE JUST TAKE A MINUTE TO APPRECIATE THESE MOTHERFUCKING BOOKS these fake ass...

Thu, 13 Jun 2013 10:15:48 -0400

assholedisney:

CAN WE JUST TAKE A MINUTE TO APPRECIATE THESE MOTHERFUCKING BOOKS

these fake ass diaries that were SO WELL WRITTEN that your 10-year-old self was about a million percent convinced that someone’s ratty ass diary survived the sinking of the Titanic and became a national best seller

THEY COVERED FUCKIN EVERYTHING

Read More

"The life of a writer is absolute hell compared to the life of a businessman. The writer has to force..."

Thu, 06 Jun 2013 09:59:08 -0400

“The life of a writer is absolute hell compared to the life of a businessman. The writer has to force himself to work He has to make his own hours and if he doesn’t go to his desk at all there is nobody to scold him…A person is a fool to become a writer. His only compensation is absolute freedom. He has no master except his own soul, and that, I am sure, is why he does it.”

- Roald Dahl (via writingbox)

thedoppelganger: Long suede gloves with gold metal talons, Elsa...

Thu, 06 Jun 2013 09:57:56 -0400

thedoppelganger:

Long suede gloves with gold metal talons, Elsa Schiaparelli, ca. 1936

Things You’ll Find in Our Apartment: A Canela examining a...

Thu, 06 Jun 2013 07:13:55 -0400

Things You’ll Find in Our Apartment: A Canela examining a yam that got so bored with not being eaten, it started to sprout. #food?

22drunkB Baker St.: Hannibal as a fairy tale (and I mean the dark, old-school kind) part 1: liminality and borderlands

Wed, 05 Jun 2013 21:35:14 -0400

22drunkB Baker St.: Hannibal as a fairy tale (and I mean the dark, old-school kind) part 1: liminality and borderlands:

22drunkb:

So there was an earlier post that casually referred to Hannibal as a fairy tale, and I had to seize on it because as y’all may have noticed I keep coming back to Hannibal as the Fairy King/Queen. (The Queen has always interested me way more than the King, and in light of the romantic undertones…

Dishonesty Hour

Wed, 05 Jun 2013 18:13:31 -0400

Send Me Questions And I Will Answer With Definite Lies

itscolossal: Mmmm tasty sugar skeletons. I happen to be in...

Wed, 05 Jun 2013 18:08:48 -0400

itscolossal:

Mmmm tasty sugar skeletons.

I happen to be in the market for sugar cubes, too.

Photo

Mon, 03 Jun 2013 21:53:57 -0400

thegoddamazon: maifrem: A. Andrew GONZALES Holy shit this is...

Mon, 03 Jun 2013 16:50:24 -0400

thegoddamazon:

maifrem:

A. Andrew GONZALES

Holy shit this is amazing.

Most men died with their eyes closed, squeezed tight against the sting of the salt water, against the tearing pain of our teeth and bone knives, against crashing white and grey of the sea storm and the monsters that swim there. All except for the dancing sailor, who fell into the ocean still laughing. His boots filled with water and down he sank, down, with his eyes wide among the tossing of the waves. He looked at me with wonder, only half-afraid, and that is when I saw that thing that their statues and their portraits and the images they wear on chains only hint at; the old witch called it a soul, and rolled her great blind eyes, and spat.

“Do we have those? A soul?”

“What do you want a soul for?” she cackled. “It’ll settle in your bones like rocks and you’ll sink and stay stuck at the bottom of the sea. They say if a shark eats a human too pure and good, he catches some of that wretched soul, and it weighs so heavy he stops moving and wastes away, and his teeth fall out, and he’s all gum and no fight, a poor excuse for a beast.” She spat again and rubbed her spindly hands together. “The sea is no place for souls. Except the lost ones, and the ones that wander, the ones your sisters bring me. Those I use for curses.”

I thought perhaps I’d caught it: that sickness that stills even the vicious striped sharks, the mad sharks with their blunted heads, even the great white sharks, half again as large as me. I let the dancing sailor go, even after he’d seen my face, my fins. I held him ‘til he stopped fighting, then swam with him to shore and pushed him their and pounded on his chest in the surf until he sputtered and woke. I let him see me again, the crown of kelp I wear, the way my scales glitter darker and more richly than their gold that litters the streets of our kingdom. My eyes are dark like sharks’ eyes, flat and black; all my sisters, we have the same eyes, eager, hungry, cold. His were wide as he awoke, and full, and bright as the sun on the shoals. He reached out a hand to touch my face, ran his fingertips over my lips, my breasts, so like the human females he’s known.

The old witch has a joke she tells, sometimes, of a mermaid who fell in love with a prince, so deeply in love that she sold her voice for a pair of legs, traded in her tail and her bone knife and the cold sea and the taste of warm meat and hot blood for a body like theirs, for a chance to love and live among them. That one was a fool, and she turned to foam.

He thought I brought him there to save him.

#vietnamese #food #noodles

Sat, 01 Jun 2013 15:24:01 -0400

#vietnamese #food #noodles

queer-punk: WE NEED FEMINISM BECAUSE WHEN LANCE ARMSTRONG GOT CANCER AND LOST A TESTICLE IT WAS ALL...

Fri, 31 May 2013 13:23:58 -0400

queer-punk:

WE NEED FEMINISM BECAUSE WHEN LANCE ARMSTRONG GOT CANCER AND LOST A TESTICLE IT WAS ALL ABOUT HIS HEALTH AND HOW INSPIRATIONAL HE WAS BUT WHEN ANGELINA JOLIE GETS A DOUBLE MASTECTOMY TO PREVENT HERSELF FROM GETTING CANCER, IT’S ALL ABOUT HOW SHE WON’T BE A SEX SYMBOL ANYMORE AND HOW MEN ARE OFFENDED CAUSE SHE WON’T BE AN OBJECT FOR THEM

Astoria being glorious.

Thu, 30 May 2013 20:40:09 -0400

Astoria being glorious.

fileunderjd replied to your photo I LOVE that book. It’s one of the few that made me cry like...

Thu, 30 May 2013 16:55:06 -0400

fileunderjd replied to your photo

I LOVE that book. It’s one of the few that made me cry like a baby.

I’m at work as I read it, so I haven’t been able to cry. But it has made me gasp out loud in a waiting room full of patients at the first mention of Ruth’s possible. Not okay, not okay, not okay.

havingbeenbreathedout replied to your photo

Ugh, yeah, isn’t he fantastic? One of my favorite living writers.

It is an absolutely beautifully written book. And, funnily enough, I’ve been thinking a lot of you as I read it? Maybe something about it reminds me of you.

Photo

Thu, 30 May 2013 16:48:00 -0400