I mostly write bullshit here; metaphors involving ghosts.
I'm happier than this blog makes me seem.
The world is kind of a shithole, but everything will be okay, I promise.
Messages/questions go here.
So there’s this cute girl I’ve been hanging out with, and I think I’m starting to actually be into her. So maybe I’ll hit my quota of two potential romances this year after all. Only, she’s 20…in January. Which is a little creepy, right? It’s kind of creepy. It’s not that creepy. I mean, I’ve got millions of years of evolution telling me it’s okay, so it’s probably okay. And assuming a best-case scenario, dating really young girls makes sense for me because I don’t want to have kids for like, ten years (man, women sure got the short end of the stick on that one). So it’s not creepy. Right?
This has been a high school diary entry. We now return you to your regular Tumblr programming: Dr. Who gif sets interspersed with overwrought poetry comparing your lover’s body to constellations and rain storms.
Just submitted a piece to Write Club Atlanta in hopes of getting a spot at one of their events.
I need to find some more writing/poetry events to get involved with.
I need a sense of moving forward.
I need a sense of being a part of something again.
Surrounded by all this glory,
Why do I still resent having been made?
And why do I have to get the shakes like this when I’ve still got work in the morning?
I guess because there’s always work in the morning.
shout out to miracles!
Sufjan’s blog is the best blog.
Tell me how you’d like it if I acted the way you do: so distant and mysterious, so irrational, and so completely, unquestionably Right about everything.
I’ll go to school, I’ll get a job. I’ll get rich. I’ll have a nice apartment in the city, one with a bar adjacent to the living room, and I’ll travel, and become cultured, and I’ll worm my way into the hearts and beds and bodies of women that hate themselves as much as I hate myself, because I can speak that secret language. But I won’t talk to you for years. I’ll leave you alone, the way I wish you’d just left me alone.
I’ll raise my hand against all my neighbors. I’ll be a sword; I’ll be a splintered staff, and if anyone leans on me, I’ll pierce their hand. If anyone gets close enough, I’ll leave them bleeding every time.
I’ll kill the best parts of me, because those are the parts I gave to you. I guess you’ve tucked them into some cosmic shoebox; they must be gathering dust under a holy bed in one of the rooms in your Father’s house that you told us all about, but never actually showed to anyone. I’ll live out the same story as most of humanity: the tragic grasping that never reaches satiety; the endless repetition: More. More. More. I’ll do it because I struggled after the ideal, the only alternative that I could imagine, and when I thought I’d gotten my hands around it, it turned to sand and slipped away.
Goodbye to Love; it looks like he lied. You spoke about peace, but you didn’t bring it after all. You talked about blessing, but your idea of a blessing and my idea of a curse look exactly the same, and I’m done making excuses for you, even — no, especially — to myself.
A wicked and deceitful generation asks for a sign, but no sign will be given them except the sign of the prophet Jonah: because when he tried to walk away, to make a different way for himself, to leave and be left alone by you, you tracked him down and threw him into the sea. You wouldn’t even give him the dignity of drowning, but consigned him to a fish’s guts.
"You deceived me, and I was deceived; you are stronger than I am, and you have overpowered me."
How can it be, that I both hate you and love you with my whole heart at the same time?
This bottle of shitty 6% by volume fruity wine is halfway empty, and I’m spending my Saturday night getting caught up on The Walking Dead in the back bedroom of my grandparents’ house. Which is a way of saying that, despite all of the new things I’ve set in motion in my life lately, things are still pretty fucking depressing if I slow down enough to think about it.
I’m generally too vain to make the kind of blatant admission of vanity inherent in the taking of a selfie by a man, but I’m looking damned good today, internet, and I thought you’d like to see.