Warm Clothes & Gypsy Lines

this is my hodgepodge

fictitiousdishes:

In an old house in Paris that was covered with vines
 Lived twelve little girls in two straight lines
.In two straight lines they broke their breadAnd brushed their teeth and went to bed…―from Madeline,1939  Text and Illustrations by Ludwig Bemelmans

fictitiousdishes:

In an old house in Paris that was covered with vines

Lived twelve little girls in two straight lines
.
In two straight lines they broke their bread
And brushed their teeth and went to bed…

―from Madeline,1939 
 Text and Illustrations by Ludwig Bemelmans

(Source: dailydoseofstuf)

I feel like I’ve already missed everything, that it’s too late to move to a new city or fall in love or start a career. I am afraid I’m going to spend the rest of my life playing catch up. I am afraid that I will never be able to be present, to enjoy what’s happening, and that my life will be a series of ups and downs but I will always feel the downs and only remember the ups months or years later, when the joy is a memory and not a full fledged genuine emotion. I want to move to the UK but am afraid to make another move by myself and I don’t know where to find people who will actually move with me or if I should just stop trying to find people at all and live as a recluse. I’ve been feeling very “what’s the point” lately and it’s not attractive, rather it’s quite sophomoric but I don’t know how else to feel.

when your life has been characterized by depression and anxiety, how do you learn how to feel differently?

so-personal:

everything personal♡

so-personal:

everything personal♡

(Source: cupcakesandmascara, via hopeless-breathless)

(Source: dailydoseofstuf)

a year ago

in april of 2013 I had a sex number conversation with one of my guy friends over mugs of beer and steak sandwiches. at the time he was 25 and had slept with over 80 girls. I asked if he knew all their names and he laughed and asked does “girl at bar” count? I realized that though my own sexual escapades may have made me “girl at bar” in the eyes of my various sexual partners, I never wanted to not be able to remember the name of the guys I have had sex with. so I started a list. then it turned into two lists - one just listing the names of the various dudes one after the other, the other listing the number of times and order of said various dudes because, you know, once I find my favorites I like to recycle them. 

the other day I was updating my list and realized that I’ve had sex with a lot less people this year than I had by this point last year. I wonder why that is? I have sex to make up for whatever emotional deficiency I am dealing with at the time, and right now I just feel so exhausted, so emotionless, that I don’t even have the energy to use sex to mask my emotions or lack thereof.

I’m seeing a physician tomorrow because I’ve lost 10 pounds in the past ten days. I’m exhausted and my hair is falling out. I have no sexual desire. I am the epitome of lethargy. I think all of these things are related - some sort of hormonal disorder I think. if that is the issue, when I get it fixed, what will happen to my sexual drive? is this something that happens as you grow older - it comes in waves? whats happened?

I spent the fourth at home in dc. my friends and I were in the middle of a conversation and kelsey referred to me as the “crazy one” - we expect you to have sex, we expect you to do lines of coke off a dresser, we expect you to smack the guy who approaches you at a bar etc etc. I just don’t think crazy is the right word. my stories make me crazy? why does liking sex and drugs and sticking up for myself make me crazy, and not just simply human?

what’s with the label? why do I always feel so sick? what is wrong with me?

Sylvan Esso - Could I Be

roblr:

Could I Be - Sylvan Esso

rookiemag:

Friday Playlist: Hanging Out With Weetzie Bat
fromthebeehivetothebay:

this week’s lineup

fromthebeehivetothebay:

this week’s lineup

“Your naked body should only belong to those who fall in love with your naked soul.”

—   Charlie Chaplin in a letter to his daughter, Geraldine (via thoughtsfromnora)

huh

(Source: goldveil, via hopeless-breathless)

and this has been a 5:45 am list and rant, courtesy of dr pepper

this isn’t anything besides a list of things I need to do / read / see but I can’t find a clean sheet of paper to write on so here we go:

  1. Nick McDonell is the author of Twelve. You hated the movie, the book was meh (in 2012). Read his other two “highly acclaimed novels” The Third Brother and An Expensive Education, and his various pieces of journalism, and re-decide if you like him.
  2. Twelve is like Less Than Zero, so you might as well re-read that as well. And, perhaps all Palahniuk. And then remember why you like, and dislike, transgressional fiction so much
  3. Watch Pan’s Labyrinth because you love it
  4. Stop reading your tumblr from 2008. It’s making you depressed
  5. Go see Palo Alto. Try to forget that you don’t like James Franco as a writer and watch with an open mind, critique later
  6. Rummage through your million stacks of books and find  A Visit From the Goon Squad (seriously. where the fuck did you put it?). If you can’t find it, buy it again but not via amazon
  7. Cry because David Sedaris is speaking at Politics and Prose, and you left your copy of Let’s Explore Diabetes With Owls in freaking Boston
  8. Also - do more research on the whole Amazon/Hachette war
  9. DO NOT give in to the lure of new york city, no matter how enticing (for instance, just because someone has an apt in the east village, that does not mean you should go to said apt in the east village)
  10. DO give in to the lure of the mountains, of leelanau, to diet vernors and cheeseshop on the dock, lake michigan walks, fleece blankets, melted toes, legs bit by gravel, kissing at the lot on the roof of the jeep, to sand in your underwear, tying knot after knot while sliding through the river —- give in to that life, not this one 

Is it possible to be over it all by 23? Blogging, going out to the coolest places, going to all the shows, the art galleries, reading contemporary literature, memorizing Howl, writing poetry, performing said poetry, eating clean, working out, only drinking good drinks, blah blah blah. I feel like everyone is trying to do these things but I’ve done them and I don’t have the energy anymore besides liking what I like for no reason besides the fucking fact that I like them.

It’s weird. I feel like if someone were to meet me now they would have no idea of the shit I’ve done, of what I am capable of. And why? What has stunted me the past two years? My stress reducers used to be creative and now I don’t know what they are- alcohol? Sex? Am I stunted? Or am I finally learning to just be myself and like things because I want to like them, and not feel the need to justify said things?

I feel like my life in virginia and my life wherever else I am living (Michigan, Athens, London, Boston) will never converge. I am two different people and I always yearn for the other. Of course, because of course. I want Boston, I want Michigan, I want the crooked narrow streets of hidden London, I want the New York subway, I want to drink coffee and walk along the canals in Amsterdam, I want Alex, I want Katie, I want Cat, I want all of these things and I don’t know how to get them.

The other day I went to our dive wearing a tye-dye shirt, jeans, and a Marc Jacobs jacket I wore throughout the UK four years ago. I was being given the usual spiel by a drunken [married] man (er, manchild) who graduated from my high-school in 2003 “you’re gorgeous. you’re so sexy. your breasts are like little pillows I want to sleep on. you are so smart. love me love me love me" and because I am trying this thing called "being nice" in the hopes that it turns guys away because the whole "sarcastic aggressive" thing was just getting me laid (them laid?) too much (lol. too much- is that possible?), I let him give me (unasked) advice on my life while my hands balled into my pockets and I scrapped my knuckle against a piece of rock. I had completely forgotten it was there, but like all good stolen memorabilia, I remembered the hardened ash and pumice from the caldera at the Phlegraean Fields in Italy that I picked up while visiting my uncle in Naples. So, yes Mr HHS Class of 2003, please give me your stupid advice and mistake my smiling eyes for naiveté but do you have a fucking piece of the Solfatara crater in your pants pocket? PROBABLY FUCKING NOT. I do not need your advice.

…or anyone’s actually because I’ve spent a lot of fucking time on my own and have turned out pretty okay for the most part, and really, what the fuck could you tell me that I haven’t figured out myself already? Sure, some interesting info about planning a wedding and some tidbits about mortgages and also maybe how to cheat on your spouse but I’ll learn all that shit in due time and everything that comes out of your mouth is just words, empty fucking words.

I guess that’s the whole point of this. People keep telling me what to do in order to be “something” without stopping to think that maybe my “something” has already happened, and yeah I’m fucking confused as shit about where my life is headed, but I like myself and the way I am and how I do things, but people keep speaking, instead of listening, keep trying to shape me into “something” but I am no longer malleable, I am done.

However, I did have an extraordinary amount of fervor once, and I don’t know where it went. So:

11. Find fervor, even if its just a little

Perhaps that will help the confusion go away.

fictitiousdishes:

The Catcher in the RyeThis photograph depicts a scene from J. D. Salinger’s The Catcher in the Rye, in which Holden Caulfield stops at a drug store and orders a cheese sandwich and a malted after a very bad date. 

fictitiousdishes:

The Catcher in the Rye
This photograph depicts a scene from J. D. Salinger’s The Catcher in the Rye, in which Holden Caulfield stops at a drug store and orders a cheese sandwich and a malted after a very bad date. 

(via lifeofawhiskeydrinker)