Today, I went into a clothing shoppe and found a cute dude in a jean jacket whilst I was in a jean jacket. We made eye contact, and in that moment, there was jean jacket synergy. My jean spoke to his and we were lifted from the fabric of the universe like muffins from a non-stick pan. But then I made eye contact again while I was playing with my tongue and I felt like this:
buymepants replied to your post: Series 3 of summer time tedium. While the… you’re doing to cairo?!!! ugh take me with please. Yes, yes. It’s a two month trip and I’m going to feel like this when I hear all that sweet, fluent arabic for the first time: By this I mean I will be very awkward. Also, I’ll fit you in my carry on. At least an ear or an eye so at least...
Series 3 of summer time tedium. While the previous two summers felt like prolonged sighs, the fact that I’m going to Cairo in three week’s does nothing to relieve the dense idleness in the air. I go outside, look at the moon to only aspire to be gazing at it from somewhere else— while doing something. Instead of having to return to crawling around my room, what if laughter...
Back at home— I spoke more Spanish in a day than in the past months. I missed Latinidad.
I never want to live with women again. Beneath all the cute decoration are balls of hair (both from their luscious locks and nether regions), rotting food, and socks.
Homebound in t minus fourteen hours. But before I can undergo return, I’m going to have to clean the entire apartment my roommates left a mess.
I finish my essay and what do I find: an e-mail...
it’s like two pages but FUCK. >:((((((
Sweet Jesus with a honeydew melon hat, I’ve written 30 pages in the past four days. Every other semester, the most I had to write was like 6. Fuck me, it only gets worse.
Doctor who has gone to shit
Pessimism, depression, and existentialism are all part of the same sensational soup.
Heretical subversion exploits the possibility of changing the social world by changing the representation of this world which contributes to its reality or, more precisely, by counterposing a paradoxical pre-vision, a utopia, a project or programme, to the ordinary vision which apprehends the social world as a natural world: the performative utterance, the political pre-vision, is in itself a...
If I were an apple with a will… an apple that existed atop other will-less apples atop a shelf atop the linoleum floor of a grand supermarket named “McNally’s…” I’d be the type of apple to have exerted by incorporeal will so much that metaphysics would pity me and transform my elephant-sized efforts into a push that’d liken to the nudge of a finger on a...
All I wanted was a Bourdieu book and it’s missing from our library.:((
I was aiming for 7 pages and got too excited and am now at 9 pages. oops
It’s Wednesay, I have a paper due Friday at noon. I haven’t started and I still have another one to finish by today. womp womp eat cat shit, papers.
The most frustrating thing about trauma is its slippery quality as an object of the past. The past is not just there, but rather is actively imagined into place— the color, size, tone of traumatic memory really depends on what you had for breakfast. If I had oatmeal in combination with a busy day, the night I got lost in my suburbs blurs into a walk with a tinge of discomfort. But say...
weeaboo-chan: nothing says ‘true terror’ more than coming home from grocery shopping to find your mom using your laptop
fapnapkin: liking someone who probably doesn’t like you back ヽ(；▽；)ノ liking someone whose obviously too good for you ヽ(；▽；)ノ liking someone and feeling like nothing but an annoying piece of shit to them ヽ(；▽；)ノ liking someone ヽ(；▽；)ノ
Honesty hour: Mom’s are really cool and I can’t wait to form a parental relationship with my own child. And the oddly great thing is that as I think this, it’s as if the thought draws from immaculate maternal love and cannot be tarnished by the daily pettiness of loneliness and pettiness.
I went on my first shirtless run. And even though I got embarrassed before I got back to campus and quickly clothed myself again, it was still a really nice feeling. Both the overcoming of my self-consciousness and the warm sun on my torso.
What am I passionate about? Milk and apples. das it
Whenever I seek to share my inner-dialogues about my body, I get real anxious— an anxiety rooted in my expectations of other’s reactions towards my body image struggles. Consequence to my body coinciding with the well-regulated images of harmful body types, I grew up feeling and thinking like a “fat kid.” Taking off shirts, running, eating too much in front of others—...