bring on the tequila.
Yesterday, I spent 60 dollars on groceries,
took the bus home,
carried both bags with two good arms back to my studio apartment
and cooked myself dinner.
You and I may have different definitions of a good day.
This week, I paid my rent and my credit card bill,
worked 60 hours between my two jobs,
only saw the sun on my cigarette breaks
and slept like a rock.
Flossed in the morning,
locked my door,
and remembered to buy eggs.
My mother is proud of me.
It is not the kind of pride she brags about at the golf course.
She doesn’t combat topics like, ”My daughter got into Yale”
with, “Oh yeah, my daughter remembered to buy eggs”
But she is proud.
See, she remembers what came before this.
The weeks where I forgot how to use my muscles,
how I would stay as silent as a thick fog for weeks.
She thought each phone call from an unknown number was the notice of my suicide.
These were the bad days.
My life was a gift that I wanted to return.
My head was a house of leaking faucets and burnt-out lightbulbs.
Depression, is a good lover.
So attentive; has this innate way of making everything about you.
And it is easy to forget that your bedroom is not the world,
That the dark shadows your pain casts is not mood-lighting.
It is easier to stay in this abusive relationship than fix the problems it has created.
Today, I slept in until 10,
cleaned every dish I own,
fought with the bank,
took care of paperwork.
You and I might have different definitions of adulthood.
I don’t work for salary, I didn’t graduate from college,
but I don’t speak for others anymore,
and I don’t regret anything I can’t genuinely apologize for.
And my mother is proud of me.
I burned down a house of depression,
I painted over murals of greyscale,
and it was hard to rewrite my life into one I wanted to live
But today, I want to live.
I didn’t salivate over sharp knives,
or envy the boy who tossed himself off the Brooklyn bridge.
I just cleaned my bathroom,
did the laundry,
called my brother.
Told him, “it was a good day.
You drink about it, smoke about it, don’t talk about it.
I miss my long hair.
I miss being this happy.
At least I still have this dress.
Guess I ain’t worth the time
Well played Girl Scouts, well played…
Dogs are the best things ever!
I fucking love dogs
Remember how these images of anti-gay discrimination got people upset because they “stole” other people’s oppressed histories to make a point?
I’m bringing these back not to oppress anyone, but because this is literally what it could look like in Kansas soon.
People will legally be able to do things like this. If this does not scare you, I don’t know what will.
ON VALENTINES DAY
OH MY FUCKING GOD NO
The other girl was so much sadder
I agree but you can’t say the whole Jane thing doesn’t rip out your heart and stomp on it…
I mean Andrea getting shot tore me up inside because Jesse having to watch it absolutely killed me
I was shouting at my computer when Walt watched Jane die
Oh my god Jesse’s entire existence is just sad
collections that are raw as fuck ➝ zuhair murad pre-fall 2014