I just realised how annoying some people are. Some people just simply can’t keep their mouth shut. Honestly. They need to say their every single fucking opinion and give too much shit about other people’s live.
Don’t give me your pathetic judgement and in fucking quotations you stupid bitch. You can go and get fucked, thank you very much. I don’t need your shit. So glad school’s over. Don’t have to see your face anymore and every other annoying assholes whom I had to tolerate five fucking days a week.
She can paint a lovely picture but this picture has a twist. Her paintbrush is a razor and her canvas is her wrist. She paints her pretty picture in a color that’s blood red. While using her sharp paintbrush, she ends up finally dead. Her pretty pictures fading quite slowly on her arm. The blood is not racing through her. She can no longer do harm. She painted her pretty picture but her picture had a twist. You see, her mind was the razor and her heart was just her wrist.
I think you could fall in love with anyone if you saw the parts of them no one else gets to see. Like if you followed them around invisibly for a day and saw them crying in their bed at night or singing in the shower or humming quietly to themselves as they make a sandwich or even just walking along the street. And even if they were really weird and had no friends at school, I think, after seeing them at their most vulnerable, you wouldn’t be able to help falling in love with them.
The paradox of our time in history is that we have taller buildings, but shorter tempers; wider freeways, but narrower viewpoints; we spend more, but have less; we buy more, but enjoy it less.
We have bigger houses and smaller families; more conveniences, but less time; we have more degrees, but less sense; more knowledge, but less judgment; more experts, but more problems; more medicine, but less wellness.
We drink too much, smoke too much, spend too recklessly, laugh too little, drive too fast, get angry too quickly, stay up too late, get up too tired, read too seldom, watch TV too much, and pray too seldom.
We have multiplied our possessions, but reduced our values. We talk too much, love too seldom, and hate too often. We’ve learned how to make a living, but not a life; we’ve added years to life, not life to years.
We’ve been all the way to the moon and back, but have trouble crossing the street to meet the new neighbor. We’ve conquered outer space, but not inner space; we’ve done larger things, but not better things.
We’ve cleaned up the air, but polluted the soul; we’ve split the atom, but not our prejudice.
We write more, but learn less; we plan more, but accomplish less. We’ve learned to rush, but not to wait; we have higher incomes, but lower morals; we have more food, but less appeasement; we build more computers to hold more information to produce more copies than ever, but have less communication; we’ve become long on quantity, but short on quality.
These are the times of fast foods and slow digestion; tall men, and short character; steep profits, and shallow relationships. These are the times of world peace, but domestic warfare; more leisure, but less fun; more kinds of food, but less nutrition.
These are days of two incomes, but more divorce; of fancier houses, but broken homes. These are days of quick trips, disposable diapers, throw away morality, one-night stands, overweight bodies, and pills that do everything from cheer to quiet to kill.
It is a time when there is much in the show window and nothing in the stockroom; a time when technology has brought this letter to you, and a time when you can choose either to make a difference, or to just hit delete…
You stare at the chat window. It is white on white on white — oblivion’s vanishing point — this contemporary art piece. You can walk by or be kicked out by the guards for vagrancy. You are staying too long. Before: her sparseyeahs and okays accented with periods (always with periods, you notice) occasionally garnished with a colon and parenthesis, backslash. This is all so meager; she’s not giving you much because she cannot, she is not able. Wait for the is typing…that never comes. Insert religio-jurisprudence metaphors: purgatory, final judgment, the jury she’s sleeping, not in session.
Try again tomorrow.
Today the sky is an unfinished quilt. Everything doesn’t fit; you’re walking around in a fitting room. You try to ignore the pins embedded in the carpet. Except: a couple gets out of their respective cars in the coffee shop parking lot. She embraces him. No, wait—kisses him, jumps, straddles him like she did on those old department store rides powered by coins—and this is the most beautiful thing you have seen in a while. You cry. You’re not used to the non-control. You turn your back not to be that sad guy. Wipe off your face, your coworker is driving you home, you don’t want to hear what’s wrong. But you want everyone to ask.
Send text messages to the great silence.
This emotional earthquake (you’ve never been in a real one, but the human body was designed for neither, you gather) that evening on the three-season porch shakes off your glasses, everything five-year-old-with-a-camera when you try and see. A shred of you wants to shake like this forever, like a sacred flame in a temple that floats only on water. In between the cry/gasp binary it’s cigarette like a snorkel: this will give me air. Zippo clicks like multiple smokers outside a bar, but no, still you and there is one in your hand one in your mouth, nevermind; it’s all early grade school math in the child-like now. The sobs administer novocaine to your nether regions, libido paused like a download. For a second you think you can’t feel anything below your eyes.
Everything now a scratched cornea.
It’s so new, a big deal, and you feel the clichés flowing through you like a human minted virus: you are so unique and alone, that no one gets you.Good news! — your heart is not a Stoic existential roadblock, you can feel like everyone else. You are nothing new. Using these ears of sadness and perception, you may finally decipher the words of For Emma, Forever Ago.You want to retreat to a cabin and embrace celibacy, become a monk in the cloister of your unkempt ego. You want to think there is no one else. You want to think that no one has ever thought this before, but you think about how everyone thinks that, even now. Well. You know how insignificant this really is; you know how catastrophic this really is.
“You’re a rebel. Whether you like it or not, you are. Look at you. You’re full of smart remarks just ready to attack. You’re a bomb ready to explode. You’re smart. You’re sarcastic. You’re a flirt. You love to intimidate people and sit back and watch their reactions. You mind fuck everyone who comes across you. You are the most rebellious person I know. But you’re not dumb rebellious. You’re secretly rebellious. You never wear plain jeans, always ripped. See, that’s rebellious. You’re charming. You’re a bad ass. You’re a sarcastic bitch. You’re more spice than sugar, but its still the perfect balance. You’re too much to handle but just enough to have. I don’t know. You’re one hell of a complicated person but you make everything so simple.”
Eventually, she’ll become immune to your apologies, even if they’re satiated with sincerity. Because one could only stomach so much disappointment from high hopes that come plummeting down before the disappointment becomes expectation. And your apologies will eventually transform into words that are said only in attempts to make things right. Eventually, I’m sorry won’t be good enough anymore because you wore out the meaning and wore her out of believing them.
3 Fashion Trends That Someone Needs To Explain To Me
1. Chicks shaving a little patch onto one side of their head and growing the rest long. Can we all finally, as a society, accept the fact that just because something looks good on Rihanna does not mean that it will look good on every random girl who ever worked at an Intermix? Rihanna could essentially smear herself with Elmer’s glue and roll around in Froot Loops and 20-something white chicks would be like “That is so cute, I knew crushed cereal in your bodily creases was going to make a comeback. I told you, Stacey.” But this is absurd, and must go. When random chicks just shave that awkward patch into the side of their head, they do not look “edgy” and “hot,” they look like they got a hold of a pair of trimmers for their more sensitive hairs and slipped as they were turning it on. Nothing about that hairdo looks even remotely intentional. And, speaking anecdotally, I went into my bank the other day and the receptionist was suddenly missing a sizeable chunk of hair on the side of her head and looked at me like nothing had happened. I wondered immediately a) if she had a boss of any kind and b) if she knows that this hairstyle will soon be looked back upon with the same disdain as white girl cornrows.
2. Chunky, humongous, platform-y heels. I feel like every decade flirts with this trend, which I guess is intended to make women look sleeker by setting them against the kind of footwear that Disco Stu would wear. If the woman’s shoe is the size of a state-fair melon, designers think, the rest of her will look dainty and adorable by comparison! Every pound of shoe takes off 3 pounds of woman! She’ll be a walking optical illusion! But the majority of women I see walking around with these super “trendy” horse hooves are already really tall and thin, making them look like when the vampires tromped through the pumpkin patch to find Jack Skellington inThe Nightmare Before Christmas, but they don’t, and one of them comes limping back with a pumpkin attached to his skinny little leg. That is not a good look on a real human being not in a Tim Burton movie.
3. Wearing ridiculous clothes that don’t match whatsoever and it being so cool. I think I’m beginning to understand the general theory, which is that if you’re really skinny, tall, and good looking, you can wear whatever the hell you want at any time and people will fawn over how amazing and avant-garde it is. I used to think it was just street fashion photographers looking to get some fame by taking pictures of bag ladies and passing it off as fashion, but I’m pretty convinced now that everything in the fashion world has been “done,” and now the designers are just blindfolding themselves and throwing darts at a chart with different clothing items on it. “Fair Isle sweater… snakeskin pants… riding boots… and… a Snuggie! Lagerfeld, send this down the runway immediately! Lowly intern, come wash my feet, I feel dirty. Don’t look me in the eyes.” Or, you know, whatever goes on. But I seriously can’t get over the concept that we’ve reached a point in fashion where you just wear your grandmother’s afghan couch throw with some cutoff denim shorts and people will trip over themselves to tell you how good you look. I’m not just being nostalgic for the time women wore tailored dresses and men wore suits — I’d settle for the eighties, when at least acid-wash jeans were paired with something resembling a shirt.
In all those movies about the future, they always show people in silvery standard-issue unisex jumpsuits. When are those coming already?
Sometimes the words don’t come and then the chills come knocking around my worn out wrists and my weary fingers, they shake for me like addicts of a writer’s nicotine because I get afraid that the words just won’t come
My mum carried me in her womb for nine months. She felt sick for months with nausea, then she watched her feet swell & her skin stretch & tear; she struggled to climb stairs, she got breathless quick; she suffered many sleepless nights. She then went through excruciating pain to bring me into this world. Then, she became my nurse, my chef, my maid, my chauffeur, my biggest fan, my teacher, and my best friend. She’s struggled for me, cried over me, hoped the best for me, and prayed for me. Most of us take our mom for granted. I love my mum.
“Years from now, when we’re married with kids and have nothing to do, one night we’re all going to look back at our tumblr pages and laugh at how we were feeling at that time. We’ll see the quotes, the posts, the drama, the old songs that are no longer cool to listen to, the old friends, and the memories of a good time and think, why did I worry so much about things I had no control over, when I am perfectly happy right now?”—(via stevenrosas)
Why aren’t you letting me in? I’m trying. Trying my fucking hardest. I’m trying to be the best friend who used to be there for you. Who you would always tell everything to. I’m trying to be the same old fucking best friend who calls you up every night asking you how your day went. But why don’t you fucking let me in? What the fuck happened? You apologised for not speaking to me, telling me that you miss our friendship. But why are you doing this? I’m just trying to be there for you, but WHY WON’T YOU FUCKING LET ME?
English is so bad at describing what it means to grieve. We use words like bereft or bitter or sad, or we say we have a broken heart. But none of these really get at the nuances. The words don’t seem to capture each exquisitely painful feeling.
For example, there should be a word, maybe borrowed from German, a language so good at expressing complicated mental states in a single lengthy word with many chewy consonants, for when you miss someone so incredibly, achingly much, when that person pervades every thought, every interaction, every waking moment, but you also loathe them. Because they treated you badly, or because they were too weak to be honest with you. Because you were betrayed. And because you loathe them, you hate yourself for missing that person so intensely. For missing the laughter they inspired; for wishing for the easy intimacy that you built. You hate yourself for knowing that they aren’t worth so much sadness, that such an outlay of mental energy is entirely wasted and useless. But you feel it anyway, and you cry in the shower or into your pillow or anytime something reminds you of that person. Which is all the time. There should definitely be a word for that.
There should also be a word, maybe from the French, who do existentialism so well, for the feeling of disconnection you cultivate when you walk through the streets with your headphones on, sad songs blasting into your ears loudly enough that you can pretend you are alone. You pass by other people almost without seeing them, since you can’t hear them. You walk by shops and offices on the sidewalk, going somewhere or maybe not going anywhere in particular, feeling like the music in your ears is a soundtrack to your sadness. This song makes you think of that person; that song comes close to capturing how lonely you are without them. You isolate yourself physically because you feel so isolated inside; surrounded by people, you are still alone, because you have been abandoned by that one person who made you feel somehow less alone.
English is also missing a word for how it feels when you know that person has moved on so quickly. When you find out you weren’t as important as you thought you were. When you realize that they were acting selfishly instead of caring about you, or when you understand that you didn’t really come into it at all for them, they were just doing what they needed to do. Maybe it should come from Russian, because the Russians know despair. You thought you were finally getting over them. You could almost go an hour, if you were busy with something really important, without thinking about them. Then you see a Facebook post or hear some gossip from mutual friends, and you realize you weren’t over it. Not even close. You realize you were still holding out hope that you would get back together, that there would be some way to repair the damage, to be happy again. When that hope is crushed, the fragile Jenga tower of your life tumbles down. There should be a word for that kind of defeat.
And there should also be a word for when you’re just so tired of being sad, for when you are tired of being lonely but somehow don’t know how to stop. When you’re tired of crying, tired of thinking about that person, tired of missing them. You can’t yet make yourself recognize all the bad things; remembering how you’ve been done wrong doesn’t help. But the hurt over the good things, the things you still miss so much, is a dull twist in your stomach now, instead of a gaping hole in your chest. You don’t know how to turn that off, don’t remember how to be happy. But you sort of remember happiness as it existed before that person, and you want that so desperately. You want to stop this misery that drags at your ankles and eyes and insides. You know it will take time, but sometimes just the fact of being tired of crying makes you cry. Maybe we could co-opt a word from Japanese for that, since melancholy is a specialty of theirs.
There should be an English word for all these feelings of grief. And I desperately wish they existed now, just so I could tell you, next time you ask, how I’m doing in only four words, instead of all these.