"You have to be odd to be number one."
am I sick from anxiety or am I actually physically ill? a memoir by me
am i lazy or horribly depressed: the sequel
does everyone hate me or am I just very insecure: the completion of the trilogy
And the riveting companion anthology of short stories: Am I Actually Getting Better or am I Ignoring My Problems
Can we please stop making fun of people who are over 20 and are still virgins
Can we please stop making fun of people who are not interested in sex/are repulsed by sex
Can we please stop making fun of people who aren’t interested in a sexual or romantic relationship
Can we please stop making tv shows about virgins trying to lose their virginity like it’s a leech upon their life destroying all of their goals and opportunities?
(Source: morrowseer, via unicornunicornunicorn)
You are angry about something. “Clam down,” I text you. You assume I have made a typo, but in fact I am holding a small soldier clam in my hands. He died so young. War is hell
For structures that have no entry steps, ConvertaStep also makes ramps of three sizes that come in a manual as well as automatic version.
(via ConvertaStep | Wheelchair Accessibility | Ramps | Convertastep - Freedom In Mobility)
This welcome mat converts into a fully accessible wheelchair ramp. Beautiful and functional design. I want it.
Ok, something that I love about the functionality of this is that it keeps the step part usable for those who prefer it. It’s easy to forget, but not everyone, and not all disabled people are going to find a ramp better than stairs. Also this actually keeps the grade decent, which a lot of people forget the importance of
This is fucking disgusting. This woman was murdered and then by her boyfriend whom she was living with with. It does not matter whether she was male nor female, an escort or a fucking celebrity, she was a person. This is from my local Queensland, Australian paper, it makes me feel absolutely sick that people think that this is okay to write. No wonder we are seen as one of the biggest, racist, homophobic, idiotic countries in the world.
Murdoch press, ladies and gents.
"No writing is wasted. Did you know that sourdough from San Francisco is leavened partly by a bacteria called lactobacillus sanfrancisensis? It is native to the soil there, and does not do well elsewhere. But any kitchen can become an ecosystem. If you bake a lot, your kitchen will become a happy home to wild yeasts, and all your bread will taste better. Even a failed loaf is not wasted. Likewise, cheese makers wash the dairy floor with whey. Tomato gardeners compost with rotten tomatoes. No writing is wasted: the words you can’t put in your book can wash the floor, live in the soil, lurk around in the air. They will make the next words better."
"On our first date, I told you I was flighty. Impatient. Easily bored.
I don’t paint my nails because I can never sit still long enough
for even one coat to dry. I don’t fold my laundry because I hate the routine. I would rather buy new cutlery than wash my old ones.
Maybe I’m lazy. Maybe I have no motivation. Maybe I’m just looking for somebody to grab my shoulders and give me a shake and explain what normal is and why I should do it. But sometimes I brush my teeth for seven minutes straight because it just feels right. Some nights
I put my pillow on the opposite end of the bed because I’m still hopeful that I’ll wake up differently if I sleep differently. I never do.
Sometimes I forget that I’m reading in the middle of flipping a page,
instead struck by the thought we would rather make paper than oxygen, would rather have one less life-source than one less novel. I wonder about priorities. I wonder about people who think it’s necessary to match their socks when they leave the house every morning as if that’s what determines their character. I wonder about people who carry around purses that contain nothing but gum. I wonder about people who spend all their hours at a desk and then return to their house to pass the night alone in a cold bed with a frozen dinner. I wonder if they think that money will make them happier than other humans. I don’t like kissing when I have lipstick on, because I’m afraid of leaving a stain on a cheek, as if I’m marking my territory somewhere I don’t belong, as if I’m trespassing on camera. I stay up for twenty hours a day and spend the other fours hours knowing that the longest a person can stay alive without sleep is ten days. I wonder if my nervous system has begun to break down, leaving me nervous and broken along with it. I don’t understand the pills the doctors prescribed me even though they told me I was just upset over being broken up with. I told them I wasn’t upset, I was morose. I was downtrodden. I was a leaky ship; still afloat but getting lower under the weight of the water every second. I didn’t want to sink. I wanted to sail. But they didn’t tell me that the happy little green and white pills would make me plateau. On our first date, I said I felt flat. Not the kind of flat of calm water on a windless day, but the kind of flat that you associate with deflated balloons. All out of air or out of breath or struggling to find any words left. I felt like the kind of flat that musicians hate. That I hate and I can’t play a single instrument. On our first date, I think I told you I would understand if you didn’t stay. Nobody did and I never blamed them. I was too busy wondering about people who believed in numbers and the healing power of yoga on 3 a.m mornings and tying their shoes without kneeling down to notice when they left. I am stuck inside of a world that I don’t quite understand, with people I never seem to connect with."
So, I started on anti-depressants last week.
"Everyone keeps telling me to let him go.” She whispered. “But no one tells me how."
He’d never cared much for strawberries, but that summer her lips were so stained with the juices that they were all he tasted.
And he’d never had a favourite fruit, but two years later, a new girl is sat in front of him, laughing at his jokes.
"If you could only eat one thing for the rest of your life, what would it be?" She asks playfully.
And he remembers how her hands traced the veins in his neck and made their way across his chest. He remembers her soft breathing and limbs draped across his shoulders.
"Strawberries." He tells her. "I could live a life on nothing but strawberries."
"Don’t let him burn cigarette holes into your skin and tell you it makes you prettier."
"Do you love me?" The words were pressed against her tongue, waiting. But there was never a right time to say them.
"Do you love me?" She hated herself for needing to know. After all, his breath mixed with hers often enough to shut anyone up.
"Do you love me?" She whispered into the wind so he wouldn’t hear.
"Do you love me?" She said, but what she really meant was, "I need to know you love me before I do something stupid, like let you in."
What she really meant was, ” you have seen me naked all skin on skin but will you stay if I let you see me raw?”