It’s not that I forget
the cat outside. She just wants to stay out
all night. And it’s her cry,
plaintive and despairing: forgotten, forgotten
each morning that wakes me.
And each morning, I open the door
to her joy at finally being remembered.
This is her nature, the nightly melodrama
and relief of morning. If dogs look like
their owners, basset hounded,
beagled, then cats are our hearts:
the purring, the nine lives. The mornings
despairing, plaintive: forgotten, forgotten.
I KNOW YOU THINK USING ONLY TWO- AND THREE-LETTER WORDS IN SCRABBLE IS GOOD STRATEGY BUT YOU’RE JUST FUCKING UP OUR GRID.
Cut it out or I’m never playing with you again, asshole. UGH.
i was sitting on the bus today after work in a haze; i had just blitzed through a large mango bubble tea, picked up a tub of frozen yogurt to sooth my swollen throat, and i was propped up against the window while the bus idled in the center of the city. we were waiting those…
you’re a beautiful writer and i appreciate you so, so much. thank you for this.
^exactly. thank you.
This is not a tirade against the tabloids or the beauty industry. The tabloids produce crap, but people (mostly women) buy it: pictures of the overweight (they’ve let themselves go!), the enhanced and shapely (you, too, can look like this if you eat garlic and grapefruit!), and the shame-on-her-for-getting-too-skinny (as if no tabloid editor can imagine how a six-foot starlet came to think 130 pounds is obese). The beauty industry sees opportunity and shoots for it. The question is, how do we keep ourselves from being the opportunity, from seeing the mirror—and food, and other women—as the enemy? And how do we make all this stuff less terrible for our daughters, our nieces, the 19-year-old who feels her life will be ruined without breast implants?
I don’t expect little girls and teenagers to fend for themselves in this matter; we have to save them and—just as if we’re on a plunging airplane—we have to start by saving ourselves. We need to make friends with the mirror. Even if it’s DIY aversive therapy, in which you look at yourself in the mirror for one minute one day, then two the next, then three, you have to be able to bear the sight of yourself. (Must you bend over a compact and closely examine the drooping underside of your chin? No.) You cannot be a healthy person, let alone hope for healthy children, if you sigh and moan every time you encounter your own image, eat a cookie, or see an airbrushed supermodel on a billboard. Even if it amounts to wholesale pretending—go pretend. Walk around pretending to be a woman who likes her body. Pretend you think your thighs are not disgusting appurtenances but normal, flesh-covered limbs that help you get from place to place. Likewise your not-so-taut arms and not-so-flat tummy. Because every step toward self-love you take, and every inch of confidence you give someone’s daughter, makes the world a better place. [source]
I really wish that I had had more of this sort of positivity/strength/confidence in the women in my life growing up. Definitely one of the most important ideas/ideals I hope to promote if I ever have children.
Well, I’ve changed the course of music five or six times. What have you done except fuck the president?
This song never gets old and this video never stops being a soul breaker
"Eres" Café Tacvba