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ok. so. i like. um. red. red wall. red lips. red is really good. then blue. dark blue collar = good. great shade of blue and great collar width. then light blue? light blue’s killing it! big blocky part with light blue? the best! light blue stripe? get outta here with that. white? not bad. hair in wind? totally good. a+ hair in wind and kinda choppy separated bangs. freckle town? all aboard, my dudes. freckle game’s on lock. nose ring is tight. side eye look is off the chain.
all told this snap is a 10/10 100%
Quote reblogged from suburban kid with a biblical name with 36,776 notes
The girls are never supposed to end up together. I watched that movie with Ellen Page and Alia Shawkat, the roller-skating movie, the one where Ellen and Alia are best friends, each other’s only comforts in their podunk town. They need each other, and they hug, and they dance, and they tell each other I Love You, and Ellen meets a skinny boy who plays in a band. It doesn’t even work out with the boy, but that’s almost tangential. The girl was never a real option.
I think that’s why it’s really difficult for girls. For me. We follow narratives and our fingertips trace the contours of the stories we love and we long to escape within the confines of our own lives. Meet your boyfriend in the pouring rain and yank down his mask and kiss him upside down. Run with your boyfriend to the front of the ferry and throw your arms out to the side and scream, “I’m king of the world!” If you are a girl in love with a boy, your possibilities are infinite.
If there is a special girl in your life, you love her as a friend. You love her as a friend, but she becomes less important to you as you grow, and you leave her behind for a boy. She might even stand next to you when you marry the boy, and she might catch the bouquet of flowers that you throw to her. You’re giving her permission to move on, move away from you. It’s a ceremony of separation.
But if you should fall in love with a girl - and loving and falling in love are two very distinct things - the first kiss is the end. You’ve all seen the movie. Or the television show. Or the after-school special, or you’ve read the book that was banned from your school’s library for containing Sexual Content. The point of your story is not to fall in love. The point of your story is to struggle. Your story begins with a lie and climaxes in a truth and ends with a kiss. In the movie of your life, forty-five minutes are devoted to you figuring out how to say that you want to kiss girls, and another half-hour is devoted to people’s objections, and maybe the last fifteen minutes is you kissing the girl. Maybe you don’t even get to kiss the girl. Maybe she tells you that she’s flattered, but she doesn’t bat for your team.
The critics swoon; it’s realistic, they say, so realistic, to depict the struggle of the modern teen, the heartbreak of irresolvable incompatibility. Isn’t that always what celebrities cite in their divorces? “Irreconciliable differences.”
And so you’re lying on the floor of your bathroom, your knees curled to your chest, or you’re on your sofa with a pint of ice cream, or you’re in bed watching your favourite sad movie on Netflix, and the collective weight of all that you consume settles on your shoulders, leans in, and whispers, “You were never meant to fall in love.”
You were never meant to fall in love. Your story ends in tears or it ends in death. Jack Twist was bludgeoned to death with a tire iron and Ennis Del Mar was left alone in his closet to dance with an empty shirt. Alby Grant found Dale Tomasson swinging by a noose in the apartment that had been their safehouse, their respite, and he sank to his knees and cradled Dale’s bare feet and he cried. The Motion Picture Association of America axed Lana Tisdel and Brandon Teena’s sex scenes, but they didn’t have a problem with the extended shot of Lana cradling Brandon’s corpse in her fragile arms and falling asleep next to his body.
Love and intimacy are ours only in death, or so it would seem.
I don’t want to die. Isn’t that a very human experience? Not wanting to die? When does anyone who looks like me get to grow old and raise grandchildren and hold her wife’s hand as the skin wrinkles, turns translucent?
Sometimes my father asks me if I’ll ever date a man. Sometimes he doesn’t ask. “You are attracted to men, and you dream about falling in love with men,” he says, as if he can will his imaginary daughter into existence merely by speaking about her. Or maybe he is just looking out for my safety.
He’s seen the movies, too.
He loves me.
He doesn’t want me to die.
Oh, my God, this is beautiful, and now I’m nearly crying. This. ALL OF THIS OMG.
When my best friend and I were in high school, trying desperately (and usually failing) to either not be gay or at least not hate ourselves for being gay, she once confessed to me, crying, that one of the reasons she didn’t want to be a lesbian is that lesbians aren’t happy in love, that their relationships can’t last, that she’d never seen happy lesbians in stable relationships. This shit matters so hard y’all.
I know I already reblogged this but the added commentary is necessary and important so I’m doing it again.
To all the clueless assholes who say it doesn’t matter when lesbian characters are mistreated, abused, hurt and left alone and heartbroken, never getting to have happy relationships
And to all the asshole writers who think it doesn’t matter if they show lesbian characters being abused and suffering and not being able to have happy relationships with the women they love…or who think that it doesn’t matter if they don’t portray lesbian characters and relationships at all
IT FUCKING MATTERS
We’re sick and tired of having to make do with ‘subtext’ and ‘hints’ and teasing…and sick of the only lesbian representation we DO get always having things end horribly for them
this is why I tend to stay from most LGBTQ+ YA novels
because they are always sad and everyone ends up depressed or without their family or friends support or somewhere tragic
I DONT WANT THAT
I want to read books where the girl has her family and friends support and she meets another girl and they are kickass lesbians/bisexuals/pansexuals in love and it isn’t a tragedy
I want to read books where we in the lgbtq+ community are seen happy and healthy without the whole ‘come to terms struggle’ that seems to follow us in the media
I don’t want to have to keep expecting the person like me to lose everything just because she happens to love a girl
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I woke up to someone (the girl in the middle w/pigtails) tagging me in this picture of some friends and I going to the Rocky Horror Picture Show sometime in maybe 9th or 10th grade. I don’t really remember doing this, but based on my refusal to dress up, my buzz cut, and my XL hoodie, I’m pretty sure this night didn’t end with me furiously making out with a cute goth girl from the suburbs of Massachusetts. Also, even though I look like I snuck into this picture, these were some of my best friends. Double also, I’m just now remembering that this was my first time seeing RHPS and I think I was surprised/annoyed to find out it was a musical.
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Here is part two of a two part saga about a human being I allowed to take me on a date two months ago (and then again a month ago). This is the part about the date a month ago.
I had a dentist appointment the following morning after my date with Lenny which, in his mind, is why I didn’t stay over at his apartment. In my mind (the logical and realistic one), that was never going to happen because I’m not a hooch and, secondarily, because I simply was not willing to venture to his east village apartment to begin the “Is it tonight?” game that I play for the first four months I’m going out with a guy I’ve decided will be my future boyfriend, because I wasn’t sure I’d decided he was going to be my boyfriend.
He also hadn’t decided if he was going to be my boyfriend - or rather, had definitively decided he was NOT going to be my boyfriend - because, aside for an adieu text message telling me he was going to LA for the next few days and some feeble quippy, idle, check in texts, I didn’t hear from him for a month.
When I did hear from him, I ignored him, mainly because it was too painful and downright sad to come up with something to match the inanity of his correspondence. (How does one respond to being referred to consecutively as “boo bear” and “my cuban friend”?) But when faced, pointedly, with direct questioning about if if I was indeed ignoring him, I felt compelled to lighten up. “Give him another chance,” I thought. “Maybe he’s been trying to text you from his microwave for the past 25 days.” “Maybe he couldn’t figure out how to take his gloves off and has been unable to operate his phone.” GIVE THE GUY A BREAK, I thought. He’s only human.
YOU HAVE NO ONE
Another date was scheduled.
Around 7:30, Lenny sends me a text detailing a plan he has come up with, containing - considering the brevity of the communication - an excruciating amount of improperly used and outdated slang. His plan also involves sending a driver to pick me up, so I look past this.
At 8:30, he sends me a text saying the driver is outside. It takes me just a minute to get downstairs and into the car, but by the time I slam the door, I have a new text from This Fucking Guy and it is a picture of the driver with accompanying words, directing me NOT to sleep with him.
I delete this text immediately so I never have to remember that I received this communication and still carried through with this evening.
I manage to make it to Lenny’s apartment without engaging in any sexual activity with the driver. His apartment building is an old printing house - something I heard way too much about during our first mind numbing tryst - but from the lobby it looks like Bellevue, though maybe I’m projecting…
Internet: If you’re not following the sporadically updated but brilliant blog of my friend Mercedes, you are missing out on some of the most eloquently written yet harrowing dating stories to ever come out of NY. I would buy a whole book of them, even though it would make me lose all faith in humanity.
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My personal blog turned 5 years old this morning. That means that five years ago to the day I woke up and said, “you know, a single serving comedy blog about dating isn’t enough. I’ve got to bare my soul to the world and say whatever I want ALL THE TIME.” And then I posted an artsy black and white photo of a golf cart’s pedals that said STOP and GO on them. You know, because 25 year old me was DEEP. Now, to commemorate this milestone, here’s the most recent picture of me, taken unbeknownst to me by Stevie Nelson yesterday afternoon. It’s the portrait of the artist as a not-so-young-but-still-pretty-young man, posing with two of his true loves (that shirt. a glass of bourbon). Here’s to many more years of overexposing myself on the internet (or, you know, wising up and deleting this thing eventually and switching to a beaten up Moleskine notebook sticking out of my back left pocket like every other “writer”).
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David: What about handsome sexy singles with beards and army jackets on bedford ave?
David: don’t you want to kiss them
David: can’t you just go into a bagel store and point to a dude
David: i’ve been to brooklyn before i know how it works
me: I think so. I think that’s what you do here.
happy that my 2 person improv team “Only On Gchat” is back together.
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When I was 25, I started a snarky blog about relationships with one of my best friends about all the reasons you’d never want to date someone (and a few reasons you would). It became wildly popular and we were approached to write a book, which we then parlayed into an extremely non-lucrative TV deal, which went nowhere but lead us to a career in television writing. It was basically the catalyst for my whole professional life, which I’ve miraculously been able to keep going for a few years now. Looking back on those early blog entries, which usually ranged from pithy paragraphs to long meandering essays about different subsets of people who are as a whole, terrible to date (fake sensitive guys, aging manic pixie dream girls, etc), it’s easy to tell that we had a real “take” on dating but not a ton of experience. My partner had just met someone she really liked (they are now very happily married!), and I had just come out of a two year relationship that I hadn’t fully processed yet. Both of us were kind of soured on dating for different reasons, but mine were more bitter and hers were more along the lines of “eh, who needs to date when you’ve got a sweet weirdo to come home to?” In hindsight, her perspective was a lot healthier, especially because she’d spend a good deal of time dating not-so-sweet weirdos, so she was sure she’d found the right person.
Now, five years later, I’m coming out of another relationship and I’m revisiting some of that early writing. It’s a little bit embarrassing but kind of in a great way. It screams “look how much I know about life and love, readers,” while not saying very much. Sure, the idea that a guy who owns an acoustic guitar and a leather wristband might not actually BE all that sensitive is kind of funny (if not revolutionary), but it doesn’t say much about the actual inner workings of our brains or hearts or why someone can make us want to die in the best way and then the worst way and why we feel things as hard as we do for them and then not at all. That old writing was prime Urban Outfitters knick-knack section material, which is why it made sense when they agreed to carry our book (for 12.99, then 8.99, then 4.99, and then seriously-just-take-it-we’ve-gotta-make-room-for-a-book-of-cat-pictures).
A time like this will make you really look at yourself and take stock of your life and your personal needs and goals, and let me go on record as saying that this time in my or anyone’s life fucking BORES ME TO TEARS. I know I am impatient with my own feelings and emotions, but I feel all of them and I’m just. So. OVER. Them. ALREADY! It feels like I’m pinning a bunch of moths to a cork board and observing them and taking notes and the moths are like “hey, we’re still alive dude” and I’m plugging my ears like “shut up dead moths! You belong on the cork board now!” And then I leave the secret panic-room-style lab in my house and a panel slides to the side and it just looks like a normal wall. Fuck I want that in my house.
Basically, I feel like I don’t have time for this, whereas years ago it’s ALL I had time for, because it’s all I wrote/thought about. For a brief period, it’s all anyone wanted to talk to me about, professionally or otherwise, because my writing partner and I were “those blog people who talk about dating,” so we talked and talked and were charming in meetings and told the story about how we dated for 5 weeks but she remembers it as 4 days and hahaha-isn’t-that-cute-maybe-we’ll-hire-you-to-do-something-for/with-us.
The realization that needs to be made, at least for me, is that EVERYONE has time for this part of life. Sure, it’s boring and long winded and you end up saying the same things over and over and over and thinking you’ve reached a new plateau with your dumb feelings and then you’ll pass a billboard you had an inside joke about and you’ll pull your phone out all lizard brain-y and muscle memory-y to take a picture of and send to them but then you’ll stop yourself because this person is not a part of your life anymore. They are, but not in the way they were because things change and that’s life and we’re all beautiful unique flowers blooming at different times (SEE? Already sick of my own thought process and starting to rip on myself. Ugh). It all boils down to this: I’m glad that five years ago I could write a sort of popular piece called “The Three Post Breakup Phases” and really mean everything I said in it. I really meant that I thought there were three, and I really thought I was very funny in describing them. But with the benefit of hindsight I know that there are as many phases as their are planes of existence (INFINITE MOTHERFUCKERS!!!). We are never done growing and becoming the people we’re going to be until we die, and then we decompose and our bone dust goes up into the sky and becomes part of the rain that will make a tree grow and blablablablablablabla life is endless and beautiful and meaningless in the best possible way.
The other day I went to a farm and watched a rooster walk around making the “it’s morning” noise that roosters make ALL day. I genuinely thought they only did it in the morning, but no, all day with this guy. “Hey! It’s morning, y’all!” Over and over. For hours. I was there all day and this guy went off on the 20s, more or less. At first I thought, “how simple, that guy’s brain is pretty A to B. I’d like to have a brain like that, just programmed to be a living alarm clock.” And then I spent the rest of the day talking to wonderful people about all kinds of things and meeting goats and I realized, “nahh, this is just a trick my cool ugly brain is playing on me,” and I sat in a giant wooden tree stump chair carved into the shape of a hand and just thought about LIFE, MAN.
Rust Cohle has made a new friend.
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i don’t write on here very often anymore. it feels like every 8 or 9 months i write something on here about how i don’t write on here very often anymore, and then i start to write on here again. i don’t know if that’s what’s happening right now. i haven’t thought this through.
i’m in new orleans and am giving in to this city. it’s breathtakingly beautiful and chaotic and wonderful and complicated with a rich history which is everything i like about people so why wouldn’t i like it in a city?
two days ago i got out of a cab and twenty feet from where it dropped us off an 8 piece brass band was playing. my friend who comes here a lot leaned over and said “this is what it’s like all the time, this isn’t rare,” and for some reason that choked me up.
i’m here for a comedy festival and it’s pretty poorly organized but kind of great. my group and i performed sketch comedy in a brewery’s warehouse with beer can lined walls and wireless microphones because it was so big. it was unbelievably fun even though we wore hats and jackets the whole time because we could see our breath when we spoke.
someone i’m with on this trip is friends with someone who works as a Kindergarten teacher at a newly renovated charter school in the 9th Ward (they have a gym now!), and we accepted an invite to go teach her students about improv. part of me didn’t really want to go, as i’d been in party mode and was kind of hungover/apathetic. when we walked in to see 30+ beaming faces looking up at us asking questions and yelling out suggestions, I couldn’t believe I had ever considered not going. I spent a whole scene playing a very tall tree with a hat stuck on my branch and at the very end I started talking and their minds were BLOWN. how could a tree talk? i’m not dead inside even in the slightest but i definitely miss that wide eyed wonder.
after our “class” ended, the kids rushed us. they were asking our names, giving us valentines, throwing around play money, bragging about the candy they’d been given, asking to be read books, just amazed in general that we were even there. One girl kept touching my beard and pulling on it and squealing, “you have a beard! you need to shaaaaaave!!!!” i insisted, “but I grew this on purpose, I like my beard. Do you not like it?” she answered, “It’s tooooo big!!! you gotta shave!!! look! you got a mustache!”
the entire afternoon somehow changed me. after the class we walked around the neighborhood and looked at the damage that could still be evidenced by the hurricane. part of me felt like one of those assholes who goes on a humanitarian vacation strictly for the facebook profile pics and the story about how it “changed them” (see the beginning of this paragraph where i say literally that). i’d been spending the last few days on a trip where the whole point seemed to be trying as many local beverages that promise to kill brain cells while tasting like candy from your childhood, and this lovely humanizing moment gets dropped right in the middle of it. at the risk of REALLY being melodramatic, being swarmed by a sea of amazing, hilarious, spirited 5 year olds was almost too much for my guts to handle.
things are weird at home. there’s no telling exactly what’s going to happen in the next few months work/life/heart/brain-wise, but i’m not scared. i just know that these moments in this crazy beautiful city, and whatever moments happen between now and 5:30 pm tomorrow when I fly back are frozen in time. I’ve run into one of my best friends in the world here completely coincidentally, hung out with the youngest comedy fans I’ve ever seen, sat by the water and counted rats with a college friend I haven’t seen in 5 years, saw two eight piece brass bands (for a total of 16 pieces), drank in completely dark bars, met two dogs and two cats that live in the same apartment and GET ALONG(!!!!!), and walked more in 4 days than I usually walk in a month in LA.
the guy who owns the AirBnB we’re staying in has the same aftershave lotion that someone I love very much hates. I’ve had the same old container of it at my place for years and there’s always been a lot of protesting if i’ve tried to put it on. in her defense, it smells like gasoline. I did not help myself to any of that aftershave on this trip. i hope that gesture was felt all the way back home.
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