smart enough to wish i was more kind

30 Jan
∞ 7 notes
✎ illustration reading Lucy Knisley isn't it just

Reading is So Delicious by Lucy Knisley (source)

Anonymous asked: but are you looking for a boyfriend?

jkjkjkjkjkjkjkjkjkjk:

what do you mean looking? it’s not like i can go to the safari zone and throw rocks until a boyfriend hops on my balls.

Listened to the triple j hottest 100 on this little guy. His speakers and dial look like a face!

Whoa.

rightnow-forever:

“Here’s the truth: friendships between women are often the deepest and most profound love stories, but they are often discussed as if they are ancillary, ‘bonus’ relationships to the truly important ones. Women’s friendships outlast jobs, parents, husbands, boyfriends, lovers, and sometimes children.”

Here’s what I did while reading this: I cried. I thought about my best women friends. I cried some more. I posted it on the secret Facebook group me and my best friends have to keep in touch with one another as we’re spread over four continents. I cried a little bit more.

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✎ Lapham's Quarterly Baby Names Celebs

millionsmillions:

The worst possible celebrity baby names, courtesy of the fine folks at Lapham’s Quarterly.

Possible horrible thought I am now vocalizing: Is anyone else worried Diva Thin Muffin grew up to have an eating disorder? (She seems to be doing fine, according to her Wiki. She made a cape for Diablo Cody, and also this: In 1999, Zappa released a comedy single called “When The Bell Drops” about her “hunt for someone to make out with on the Millennium”. Tipper Gore played drums on the recording and Kristen Gore sang backup vocals.)

Other thoughts: George Foreman, you idiot. Jamie Oliver basically wants to be Yogi Bear. REIGNBEAU. REIGNBEAU. REIGNBEAU.

» open doors lead to absent handy men

My favourite excerpts from my most recent blog post, which is about the inauthencity of some conversations I’ve been having in my life, and how I muddle through them, my brain half split as I talk and make things up to say.

Is it a writer’s curse to invent words to string together as you speak, your lips like the nibs of pens, the lead tips of pencils and your tongue and breath the ink? Never have I understood air better than when I am pretending to know what I am talking about. Here is heartbreak, here is denied self-worth, here is desperation and a need to understand. Here is another person. Two people, in love and out.

And the script says.

—

You’re a book I learned to read, a well-thumbed magazine in a doctor’s waiting room. Repeat visits.

—

I imagine us as broken phonographs in this kitchen, bleating our glitchy tunes at each other. “It’ll be fine.” “I know.” “It’s tricky.” “I mean…” I do not know what I am saying to you. I turn and inch my way to the kitchen door and leave. A half-turn, a half-smile, an exit. It seemed better than anything else I could have conjured up, cheap tricks.