Audible breathing is one of my pet peeves.
RIP Stan the Man
I need a bulldozer
to push all these rocks off my chest
flying rebellious flags
ushering in a new era
smelling of vomit and diesel fuel
Days are long
I pack them with as many thoughts as I can
So it’s not surprising
One or two are of you
(Source: 7oh3rd, via radical-human)
You can’t kill me
If you can do whatever you want; then I can say whatever I want. Words hurt, get tough. There are much scarier things in this world than noises coming out of someone’s mouth.
“She listed her job as stay at home girlfriend, and her status updates are all pictures of herself and complaining.”
“What’s her boyfriend do?”
“Works In a factory two shifts a day.”
*whistles “she wouldn’t be my girlfriend for long.”
“If you gon’ talk about it you can at least be about it.”
That’s some wise shit right there. Not delivered in the way I was accustomed to, but wise all the same.
Judging by the history of the world, I think we can say that as a general rule: if you aren’t sure who the evil empire is, it’s probably you.
Panama Calls
I sit by myself
because I deserve the
least pleasant sort of company.
The kind that informs you
of exactly what
you could improve
regarding your life,
but doesn’t bother to
coat it in candy.
The sort that isn’t in a
chatty mood,
but when tempted,
the words start trickling in.
“No, let’s talk about me.
But I don’t even know you.”
When others sit nearby
they want to talk about other people.
I’ll just talk to me,
I’m just like everyone else.
Except exceedingly boring.
a squishy brain
that doesn’t care to
understand itself,
inside a ticking time bomb
*eight orders of fried haddock and six orders of fried shrimp pop onto our screen in the kitchen*
“OH, THANKS FOR LETTING ME KNOW ABOUT THAT PENGUIN BANQUET WE WERE HAVING.”
Tim Heidecker Recounts Being Stabbed.
This is a hell of a story, brought to my attention by a friend. If you have 15 minutes (thats 90 attention spans for you internet squirrels out there) give it a shot.
HA!
(via lovemaxygirl)
I only grow wiser with the passing night hours.
One’s faults are like a nasty case of BO. They are tolerable, or put out of your mind until you lay down and try to sleep. Then it all hits you in the face at once and you’re like “HOW HAVE I BEEN LIVING WITH MYSELF?”
