glacierism:

**wears all black in 100+ degree weather** 

(via therosecaptainn)

words from my spirit animal

“Full disclosure: I am an Austenite, through and through, and although Pride and Prejudice isn’t my favorite of hers, I think it’s one of the great works of 19th Century English literature. If your experience with Jane is less happy than my own, you should maybe think about giving this one a miss: I loved the film for much the reason I loved the novel. If you didn’t love the novel, then…you suck. Go away and read your precious fucking Hemingway, or whatever you Jane-haters like.” - Tim Brayton of “Antagony and Ecstasy”, on Pride and Prejudice (2005)

(Source: antagonie.blogspot.com)

"MUSIC REVIEWS ARE STUPID BECAUSE IT’S LIKE ME EATING A ICE CREAM SANDWICH AND TELLIN YOU WHAT THE SHIT TASTE LIKE. WHAT IF I HATE ICE CREAM SANDWICHES AND YOU LOVE THOSE SHITS? I’MA BE LIKE ‘THIS WAS AN UNIMPRESSIVE JUMBLE OF CARBS THAT I COULD HAVE DONE WITHOUT’ AND YOU READ THE SHIT LIKE ‘OH, DAMN I AIN’T FUCKIN WIT IT THEN,’ THEN YOU FUCK AROUND AND DON’T EAT AN ICECREAM SANDWICH CUZ I SAID I DON’T LIKE IT AND YOU TRUST ME BECAUSE I WORK FOR A REPUTABLE ICE CREAM MAGAZINE!! WHAT PART OF THE GAME IS THAT?"

The Kid Mero on music reviews (via howtotalktogirlsatparties)

Still a piece of musical mastery, 10 years later.

cat conceits.

Inspiration is like a cat.

Sometimes you feel like you are the Master of your own, and then it hisses at you and scratches your face when you demand it give you attention. And then it hides under the couch and never comes to you, no matter how much you coax/ bribe it.

that power (outro).

This is on a bus back from camp. I’m thirteen and so are you. Before I left for camp I imagined it would be me and three or four other dudes I hadn’t met yet, running around all summer, getting into trouble. It turned out it would be me and just one girl. That’s you. And we’re still at camp as long as we’re on the bus and not at the pickup point where our parents would be waiting for us. We’re still wearing our orange camp t-shirts. You still smell like pine needles. I like you and you like me and I more-than-like you, but I don’t know if you do or don’t more-than-like me. You’ve never said, so I haven’t been saying anything all summer, content to enjoy the small miracle of a girl choosing to talk to me and choosing to do so again the next day and so on. A girl who’s smart and funny and who, if I say something dumb for a laugh, is willing to say something two or three times as dumb to make me laugh, but who also gets weird and wise sometimes in a way I could never be. A girl who reads books that no one’s assigned to her, whose curly brown hair has a line running through it from where she put a tie to hold it up while it was still wet.

Back in the real world we don’t go to the same school, and unless one of our families moves to a dramatically different neighborhood, we won’t go to the same high school. So, this is kind of it for us. Unless I say something. And it might especially be it for us if I actually do say something. The sun’s gone down and the bus is quiet. A lot of kids are asleep. We’re talking in whispers about a tree we saw at a rest stop that looks like a kid we know. And then I’m like, “Can I tell you something?” And all of a sudden I’m telling you. And I keep telling you and it all comes out of me and it keeps coming. And your face is there and gone and there and gone as we pass underneath the orange lamps that line the sides of the highway. And there’s no expression on it. And I think just after a point I’m just talking to lengthen the time where we live in a world where you haven’t said “yes” or “no” yet. And regrettably I end up using the word “destiny.” I don’t remember in what context. Doesn’t really matter. Before long I’m out of stuff to say and you smile and say: “Okay.” I don’t know exactly what you mean by it, but it seems vaguely positive. And I would leave in order not to spoil the moment, but there’s nowhere to go because we’re on a bus. So I pretend like I’m asleep and before long, I really am.

I wake up. The bus isn’t moving anymore. The domed lights that line the center aisle are all on. I turn and you’re not there. Then again a lot of kids aren’t in their seats anymore. We’re parked at the pick-up point, which is in the parking lot of a Methodist church. The bus is half empty. You might be in your dad’s car by now, your bags and things piled high in the trunk. The girls in the back of the bus are shrieking and laughing and taking their sweet time disembarking as I swing my legs out into the aisle to get up off the bus—just as one of them reaches my row. It used to be our row, on our way off. It’s Michelle, a girl who got suspended from third grade for a week after throwing rocks at my head. Adolescence is doing her a ton of favors body-wise. She stops and looks down at me. And her head is blasted from behind by the dome light, so I can’t really see her face, but I can see her smile. And she says one word: “destiny.” Then her and the girls clogging the aisles behind her all laugh and then she turns and leads them off the bus. I didn’t even know you were friends with them.

I find my dad in the parking lot. He drives me back to our house and camp is over. So is summer, even though there’s two weeks until school starts. This isn’t a story about how girls are evil or how love is bad, this is a story about how I learned something and I’m not saying this thing is true or not, I’m just saying it’s what I learned. I told you something. It was just for you and you told everybody. So I learned cut out the middle man—make it all for everybody, always. Everybody can’t turn around and tell everybody; everybody already knows. I told them. But this means there isn’t a place in my life for you or someone like you. Is it sad? Sure. But it’s a sadness I chose. I wish I could say this was a story about how I got on the bus a boy and got off a man—more cynical, hardened, and mature and shit. But that’s not true. The truth is I got on the bus a boy. And I never got off the bus. I still haven’t.

and now all your love was wasted, and then who the hell was i?

The seasons life moves in… It’s so strange to me.

What a transient thing life really is. I don’t think forever should exist in the human language because for us, forever does not and cannot exist. We cannot promise forever because we cannot give it. Believing forever (outside of, obviously, God) is folly. But does that mean we cannot believe in or put trust in something lasting, and meaningful? I’d like to think it shouldn’t. But what I like to believe and what is actually true are very different things. This lesson I’ve had to learn the hard way. (A real pity, by any means. If the world were more shaped on what I liked, it would be a better place. Then again, this is probably what a lot of crazydictators thought right before they went on wild rampages of cultural and homicidal genocide.)

Perhaps, then, it is my belief in the lasting and meaningful that baffles me on a person’s ability to carelessly toss aside relationships like a used, lace handkerchief. Maybe they treat their time equally as flippantly—time spent may not actually equate to time invested. But do the two have to be mutually independent? Shouldn’t they (and don’t they) imply the same meaning? I accept that some investments are worth more than others. Evidently, for some, certain investments are worth nothing.

But it is that very mindset that I cannot even begin to understand. What a terrible thing, to waste your time on expendable human beings. Not just a night, or a few hours, or a few minutes. But days, nights, weeks, months, even years. What a terrible thing to cause someone to care and then decide your heart will not follow. What a terrible thing to make someone believe forever—even if not cognitively—and then walk away.