do you have those memories that are really cringey and you never speak of and something triggers the memory and you want to fucking wash your brain out with bleach
I love tattooed women, maybe because they are uncontrollable, they are themselves to the point of drawing symbols of their power on their skin. Talk about owning your own body, being in your body, claiming yourself. I love it. When the world is in an uproar over whether women should have a choice or not when it comes to their own bodies, being tattooed is one of the most visible choices of all.
jeez i would love to order that thing online, but i don’t know what size to order it in because women’s clothing sizes are determined by the alignments of the planets in relation to the fuck you galaxy
If you pluck out the heart
To find what makes it move,
You’ll halt the clock
That syncopates our love.
FEELING: The one where new angles of light from the shortening day make familiar streets look alien, foliage glowing in unearthly hues or disappearing to show hidden corners and carvings on buildings you ought to know, and the gauze of light unfurls along the facades, like a scroll covered in symbols you can’t quite read, and you can feel something bubble up under your breastbone like a hiccup and you think what’s inside the bubble might be happiness but you never know because it never bursts.
HOW TO EAT IT: Go out and get hot cider. Bring a flask.
One time I wrote a list of the Reasons Why I Love You in red ink on white receipt paper and I was going to give it to you but then we drank vodka and ate maraschino cherries on your kitchen floor and you told me something about timing and I recited one of my poems in hopes that you’d think I was deep and stop asking me why why why are you so sad.
One time you told me you loved girls who always smiled so I stitched my lips into a grin and as I sat there bleeding on the kitchen floor I wrote with red ink on dirty tile a list of the Reasons Why Things Happen in hopes that you’d come back and take it back and take me back and clean up all the broken glass.
Why why why I’m so sad is because instead of filling myself up I fill you up and it leaves me dry and angry and cracked on your kitchen floor with maraschino cherry juice running sticky down my fingers and there’s not enough ink in the world to say what I need to say.
Old Finnish people with things on their heads. That is all.
(OK, I lied, that is not all. These are part of a funny, gorgeous photo series by Karoline Hjorth and Riitta Ikonen called Eyes As Big As Plates, and you should look at as much of it as you possibly can.)
(Also: hat tip, so to speak, to Mr. Benjamin Birdsall.)
Caesar salad with chicken, bacon, boiled eggs, and far too much dressing
pixie at the british fashion awards!