Right in the childhood.
Who’s Nimby?
Rainbow Fish was my little sister’s FAVORITE book as a kid.
I HAVE STELLALUNA RIGHT HERE WITH ME
BEST BOOK EVER
Where’s Tikki Tikki Tembo tho
(via silentxoxchaos)
what i’m doing instead of this shitpile of work
we stand in your room which is painted white but for some reason whenever i think about it it is as though there is a yellow film over it. the air inside smells yellow, too and it is always warmer in there than the rest of your house. “i love how good this feels.” is it the drugs or is it me? your hands are pressed against the sides of my face (why are they always so sweaty?) and your forehead against mine. your forehead is sweaty too, your dark hair damp. my hands are always cold and i slip them up the back of your shirt and you shudder and give me that smile, you know the one.
even in the darkness i know that the clouds are bulging just overhead threatening to wring themselves out on us. i can feel them heavy weighing down my hair dampening my eyelids and upper lip but we have already called their bluff, we are halfway down the block. you point out the streetlights, tell me there are seven of them and you are dizzy and they look like stars. is it the drugs or is it me? i am more focused on the streaky monochromatic rainbow their reflections form on the wet black street.
i am wrapped in your sweatshirt and oh my god the inside feels like heaven, i can feel the cloth lifting up each of the hairs on my arms by their ends. i pull up the hood and give you a flushed-cheek smile, you know the one, and you tell me i look beautiful and i tell you i don’t care.
when we walk up to the corner store the old chinese woman behind the bulletproof glass at the register is the most beautiful person i have ever seen and i try not to stare at her. i take a sip of a glass bottle of apple juice as you pay for it and you kiss the remnants off my cold lips right in front of her. “that tastes so good, i want more.” is it the drugs or is it me?
i have procured a grown-up job
and thus a blazer with shoulderpads, straight-leg slacks, chinos, a fucking BLOUSE, a pencil skirt, and a PAIR OF NUDE HEELS. also, a grown-up phone that i have yet to figure out how to use so i haven’t given anyone the number yet. who am i? what have i become?
$12 an hour, though. not bad.
“
Sometimes you climb out of bed in the morning and you think “I’m not going to make it” but you laugh inside — remembering all the times you’ve felt that way.charles bukowski (via lesbrarianism)
"with mother finally *****, and the last fantastic book flung out of the tenement window, and the last door closed at 4 A.M. and the last telephone slammed at the wall in reply and the last furnished room emptied down to the last piece of mental furniture, a yellow paper rose twisted on a wire hanger on the closet, and even that imaginary, nothing but a hopeful little bit of hallucination—"
-allen ginsberg, "Howl"
this is mostly shit that has to do with words/literature/me complaining as eloquently as possible. i don't really take myself seriously as a blogger [yet] though, so don't expect those to be the limits.
-allen ginsberg, "Howl"
this is mostly shit that has to do with words/literature/me complaining as eloquently as possible. i don't really take myself seriously as a blogger [yet] though, so don't expect those to be the limits.
