Realized I had a package slip.
Oh yeah, my microphone!
I hold the rectangular box in my hand,
with two backpacks and a purse
As I sign out my friend
On crutches from tripping over the president
after getting into a bar fight with an elephant.
We went outside
smoked a cigarette.
Set down…
What if every time I inhaled something
my head got bigger,
and bigger
and
bigger
And each time I ate
my skinny waist
grew larger and larger
And my insides were a jumble
of every toxin consumed
and every impulsive decision
and every illusion
I’ve been fed
And every thought a mix
in my head
and it spreads and the cycle never ends, and I’d dread to see which thought would reveal itself next.
Would you still think I’m beautiful?
Osculo de la Luna y el Poeta by Mariana Palova =)
| — | F. Scott Fitzgerald (via deadwriters, fatalistichues, redballoon) (via tarts) (via altarofthesky) (via longlivethequeen) YES. Couldn’t have put it better myself, F. Scott Fitzgerald. (via muchomiamor) |
Here’s the thing though, we’re in love. (my beloved roommate)..
(Source: anna-remy)
New summer. New outlook. New ideas. New Pictures. New blog!
It’s been real, but this blog is boring me to death. Follow my new one EVERYONE =)
‘84 Pontiac Dream
This movie is about light of course, but also about people who don’t really have any expectations for tomorrow, living their lives for a smaller purpose.
Greg’s video turned out so nicely, I’m getting fruity pebbles eaten out of my belly button in it. =)
I’m Christina.
I want to get away from all this indie bullshit.
I wear plaid, but I’ll wear Abercrombie if I want.
Rap can make me happier than any Vampire Weekend will.
Smoking weed is better than not smoking it,
But let’s not talk about our bowl for twenty minutes.
I have oversized thrift store cardigans,
But they don’t cover my disgust
Of the expectations that the closest people have of me.
Maybe I’m my fucking self,
Maybe I don’t want to make a joke.
Maybe I don’t want to bring the food,
Maybe I don’t care if you have a ride to the party.
I’ll get wasted,
And I don’t want you to take care of me.
I’ll stumble home and act like a slut,
I invited you to come,
You don’t join me and I’ll make my own good time.
Maybe my poem doesn’t have to rhyme.
Maybe I do need alcohol to have a good time.
Maybe I don’t.
I won’t tell you when I decide what I need,
You won’t give it to me anyways.
I don’t care if you’re a prostitute,
I don’t care if you go to Sunday school.
I don’t care if you have two friends,
Or if everyone fucking thinks you’re cool.
What is cool?
I certainly don’t know the answer
To your problems,
So why do you ask me?
I don’t want your number.
I’ll give you mine if you don’t think you’re sweet.
I’d rather have you in a frat
Than in a pathetic excuse of individuality.
As I watch my Independence fade away
I am zero steps closer to being okay,
I’d rather not have him
The rich models from LA to South Hampton
Don’t impress me much
With your touch I digress
and wonder how it is we got into this mess.
I confess that your blessing is anything less than reassurance
Preserve what we have
Make no additions
To the list of experiences
And critical condition our relation is in.
I don’t need the then
Or other men or independence.
I need the now and need forever.
Let’s stop delaying the inevitable.
Return now and spare the interrogation
Location has destroyed any hope
Come closer, and forget.
For we hurt what we know best
Resign from the role you’ve been playing
And listen.
There are two songs,
One is phenomenal, it’s melody is timeless.
A song you’ll recall with a fond reminiscence.
The second is mediocre at best, with the same three cords.
The voice rasps and you can’t quite grasp it’s meaning.
Song one gets stuck in your head for days, maybe even weeks.
You’ll blast it in your car, show it to your friends.
You’ll probably never even hear song two,
It’s much too quiet and not well rehearsed.
But it’s all about you.
Is it any worse than the first?
