“Male fantasies, male fantasies, is everything run by male fantasies? Up on a pedestal or down on your knees, it’s all a male fantasy: that you’re strong enough to take what they dish out, or else too weak to do anything about it. Even pretending you aren’t catering to male fantasies is a male fantasy: pretending you’re unseen, pretending you have a life of your own, that you can wash your feet and comb your hair unconscious of the ever-present watcher peering through the keyhole, peering through the keyhole in your own head, if nowhere else. You are a woman with a man inside watching a woman. You are your own voyeur.”—
I don’t know anymore how to ask for what I want. Maybe I never learned. It is my nature to say “no thank you” without thinking, without even considering my options. I have been politely declining my way through life, which explains why I feel so hungry, so empty-handed. I am all cautious knocks, flitting glances, interrupted sentences that go unfinished. I hate these birdlike tendencies, my stoop-shouldered timidity.
I don’t know how to kiss a man full on the mouth. I know only how to duck under my hair, put my lips on his neck, hide my eyes. I worry that I am forgetting how to want, how to need, how to drag my nails across your back. You cannot ask a man to fuck you, cannot demand his desire. You cannot drag him to you by the collar of his shirt. You must show him that he wants you. The only way to love a man without desperation is to teach him how to love you first. It is dizzying, avoiding so many glances, pretending so much apathy, escaping so many bars.
Last night I felt disengaged and dull. I disentangled my legs from the bench and put on a jacket too light for the weather. Teetering down the empty sidewalk in Greenpoint in pair of black suede platforms, I waited for a cab to come by. I felt like some wobbly, wolf-less Red Riding Hood in red lipstick, with no one to derail my path. I stared up at the thicket of buildings, like sky high trees. There are no stars in the city, only sirens.
I want to be shaken by the shoulders, grabbed by the scruff of the neck. I want your hands in the tangles of my hair and your knee insistent between mine. But first we must look each other square in the eye and jut out our chins and forget everyone who ever made us ashamed. No more of this self-effacing nonsense. No more coy or cowardice or caution. I don’t want to be touched by a single diffident finger. Love me and when you do, let it leave a mark.
Someone told me that it is better to be lucky than good. I have been neither and I want you to know it.
This spotify playlist I just stumbled upon is changing my world right now. It’s mostly 1950s and 60s French and American tunes: Serge Gainsbourg, Brigitte Bardot, Elvis Presley, Dean Martin, Tom Jones, Billie Holiday, Chet Baker, Frank Sinatra, Henry Mancini, and a bunch of French fellows I’m falling in love with. I’ve been playing it all day.
Feel free to add me (nogreatillusion) and get in on this. It’s magic.
“Eventually something you love is going to be taken away. And then you will fall to the floor crying. And then, however much later, it is finally happening to you: you’re falling to the floor crying thinking, “I am falling to the floor crying,” but there’s an element of the ridiculous to it — you knew it would happen and, even worse, while you’re on the floor crying you look at the place where the wall meets the floor and you realize you didn’t paint it very well.”—Richard Siken (via foreverdiary)
Took some pictures of my apartment today. I’ve been putting this off since the few photos I took when I first moved in (almost exactly 2 years ago!) because it never feels finished. And it’s always a mess. And I still can’t afford to buy all the pictures and frames I want. But here it is, my little work in progress.
“Children make up the best songs, anyway. Better than grown-ups. Kids are always working on songs and throwing them away, like little origami things or paper airplanes. They don’t care if they lose it; they’ll just make another one. This openness is what every artist needs.”—Tom Waits (via thebronzemedal)
“The problem is that we are not addicted to just one person - the person with whom we are in love. We are addicted to the feelings of new love, of being swept away, of being adored, of being obsessed.”—Susan Cheever, Desire (via sorakeem)
“The only way you can write the truth is to assume that what you set down will never be read. Not by any other person, and not even by yourself at some later date. Otherwise you begin excusing yourself. You must see the writing as emerging like a long scroll of ink from the index finger of your right hand; you must see your left hand erasing it.”—Margaret Atwood (The Blind Assassin)
“That spring Jenny’s mother was expecting a baby, there was no rain worth remembering, the grass, the sun and the birds lost their self-centred winter mood and began to think of others.”—Muriel Spark, The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie (via sketchofthepast)
“It’s the disconnect of being trained since birth to look a certain way, only to have dudes turn around and go, “Don’t you know we hate all that stuff on your face?” Like it was our idea! Like women collectively woke up one day and thought, “Wouldn’t it be awesome to slap a bunch of chemicals and dyes on our faces every morning from now on?”—On Men Who Don’t Like Women in Makeup | xoJane (via yeezytaughtme)
“So why do I talk about the benefits of failure? Simply because failure meant a stripping away of the inessential. I stopped pretending to myself that I was anything other than what I was, and began to direct all my energy into finishing the only work that mattered to me. Had I really succeeded at anything else, I might never have found the determination to succeed in the one arena I believed I truly belonged. I was set free, because my greatest fear had been realized, and I was still alive, and I still had a daughter whom I adored, and I had an old typewriter and a big idea. And so rock bottom became the solid foundation on which I rebuilt my life. You might never fail on the scale I did, but some failure in life is inevitable. It is impossible to live without failing at something, unless you live so cautiously that you might as well not have lived at all – in which case, you fail by default.”—J.K. Rowling (via atomos)
You should add me on Draw Something (I’m carojarvis) because I’ll make you feel better about your drawing skills. For someone with tiny little fingers, I draw like I’m wearing a pair of oven mitts. Once you add me, send me a message on here to let me know who you are so I know I’m not drawing things for serial killers (but let’s be honest I would still play probably, I would just feel weird about it).
Also, I just realized I’ve been doing it right-handed the whole time, even though I’m a lefty, maybe because that’s the hand everyone uses for their mouse, and in my head my phone is just a tiny computer? I have no idea. I’m ambidextrous at everything I suck at.
DRAW ME THINGS. I have nothing else to do at work. (Dear bosses, if you’re reading this, that’s called hyperbolic comedy! I mean irony. I mean sarcasm. I actually work SO HARD. Seriously.)
“No one could blame American women here if they all suddenly decided to leave the country saying, ‘That’s it, we’re fucking out of here, this is complete bullshit.’ There has been a debate on contraception in the last week so ludicrous that part of me was wondering if it was in fact a performance art piece, to make us all question how terrible it would be to live in a country where something like this could actually happen.”—John Oliver on American contraception debates, The Bugle 183
“i want to see a scene in a romantic comedy where a cute couple breaks up after they can’t get a fitted sheet onto a mattress. maybe that’d be more interesting than just one person losing his mind and curling up on the floor in the fetal position.”—
“I have to take this really boring class for work and I’ve been trying to think of ways to pass the time. First I made a list of all the things I’m going to take camping with me this spring. Then I tried to list every hike I’ve ever gone on. I started in 1963.”—My father, ladies and gentlemen.
“I get that we all like collecting pretty images. But this one-sided fixation with “style” and “inspiration” is starting to leave a bad taste in my mouth. What worries me is that I’m participating in websites that feed this constant consumption of images without context or knowledge. I worry now when I re-blog and re-pin an image whether there is a story behind it that I’m not aware of and a context that I’m unwittingly ignoring. I’m concerned that if we allow these images to be pinned and blogged in such a superficial manner, we’re just contributing to historical ignorance and forgetfulness.”—