Oh my god, so relevant to my current situation. Swoon.
For women who are tied to the moon, love alone is not enough. We insist each day wrap it’s knuckles through our heart strings and pull. The lows. The joy. The poetry. We dance at the edge of a cliff, you have fallen off. So it goes. You will climb up again.
You rare girl, once again, you have a body that belongs to no lover, to no father, belongs to no one but you. Wear your sorrow like the lines on your palm. Like a shawl to keep you warm at night. Don’t mourn the love that is lost to you now. It is a book of poems whose meters worked their way into your pulse. Even if it has slipped from your hands, it will stay in your body.
You loved a man who treated you like absinthe, half poison and half god. He tried to sweeten you, to water you down. So you left. And now you have your heart all to yourself again. A heart like a stone cottage. Heart like a lover’s diary. Hope like an ocean.” —Letter From Anais Nin to Clementine von Radics (After Marty McConnel)
Oh my god this is everything. Anais Nin is my goddess.
I give your performance a 10
on the pH scale because that shit was basic as hell
dude supporting local businesses and artists is essentially the most attractive thing anyone can do.
I remember when I was young, Suicide Girls seemed so exotic and provocative and strong. They had all sorts of body types and beautiful faces and were interesting and worth admiration. Now it seems like, with very few exceptions, Suicide Girls are all but skeletons, in more ways than one. Lithe to the point of being grotesque, stamped with a series of repetitive tattoos, and flung onto a bed, almost as an after thought. Most of the time they look so pubescent its shocking. It’s a shame, I once thought they were so intense, an excellent representation of alternative sexuality and confidence, but now I feel like it’s just a tattooed version of modern media body issues. I wish they’d change that.
Futurama is better than the Simpsons. I’m sorry. Someone had to say it.