“Somtimes you lie in a strange room, in a strange person’s home, and you feel yourself bending out of shape. Melting, touching something hot, something that warps you in drastic and probably irreversible ways you won’t get to take stock of until its too late”
—Rob Sheffield, Love is a Mix Tape
November 2011
“It was bewildering and humbling to keep discovering how many brave things people can fail to talk themselves out of doing.”
—Rob Sheffield, Love is a Mix Tape
come, cut me open.
I want Thursday to fucking come and go already.
Then the healing can begin.
it’s been a tough month. fuck that, year. two thousand and eleven…I’m done with you. away with ye.
Listen
Goaltime Exposure || Land of Talk
I keep my cold eyes locked in a different place
I did it well, I did it for you.
dun nun nun nun nun nuh
kicker of elves!
Radio Cure
Wilco
cheer up, honey I hope you can
there is
something
wrong with me.
I’ll be okay, I have to get through this in one piece.
If you told me I would end up sleeping at my ex boyfriend’s house, waking up at one and climbing out the window to get Souplantation together, then coming back home to sleep and plan for a party…
I’d call you a terrible liar.
Thanks so much for reading my poems! You owe me some new ones :) The last poem you sent was lovely
you’re FAR too kind, there. I have to find something worthy!
Lucky You
The National
The National | Lucky You
you’re not worth the emotional turmoil.
cigarette, sleep, repeat.
“I recall you within a chance patch of sunlight. You had sharp elbows and pale, dusty-looking eyes. When you spoke, you would carve the air with the riblike edge of your little hand and the glint of a bracelet on your thin wrist. Your hair would melt as it merged with the sunlit air that quivered around it. You smoked copiously and nervously. You exhaled through both nostrils, obliquely flicking off the ash. Your dove-gray manor was five versts from ours. Its interior was reverberant, sumptuous, and cool. A photograph of it had appeared in a glossy metropolitan magazine. Almost every morning, I would leap onto the leather wedge of my bicycle and rustle along the path, through the woods, then along the highway and through the village, then along another path toward you.”
—Vladimir Nabokov, Sounds
huh
listening to Interpol’s Julian Plenti’s solo album (which I didn’t even know I had) and it’s not bad.
OH HEY EX BOYFRIEND.
we may be friends on facebook, but you may not “like” my emotional music posts that may or may not be directed towards you and your kind.
Now who here among us,
still believes in choice?
Not I.
Andrew Bird (lookalike) was at this party and I wanted to make out with him so very bad.
Play
why are you twenty
because I’m fifteen days away from twenty one.
You’ve got your reasons
And me, I’ve got mine
But all the reasons I gave
Were just lies
To buy myself some time
“I need some new sounds to remember. I’ve been stuck in my little isolation chamber for so long I’m spinning through the same sounds I’ve been hearing in my head all my life. If I go on this way, I’ll get old too fast, without remembering any more sounds than I already know now. The only one who remembers any of my sounds is me.
How do you turn down the volume on your personal-drama earphones and learn how to listen to other people?
How do you jump off one moving train, marked “Yourself”, and jump onto a train moving in the opposite direction, marked “Everybody Else”?” —Love is a Mixtape by Rob Sheffield
How do you turn down the volume on your personal-drama earphones and learn how to listen to other people?
How do you jump off one moving train, marked “Yourself”, and jump onto a train moving in the opposite direction, marked “Everybody Else”?” —Love is a Mixtape by Rob Sheffield
You miss the person, you miss the being. We never saw eye to eye but at least she had a personality to disagree with. Now a morbid game of who can draw the knife quickest.
“I also hate people to ask cheerfully how you are when they know you’re feeling like hell and expect you to say ‘fine.’”
—The Bell Jar, Sylvia Plath
Samson - Regina Spektor
Regina Spektor
I cut his hair myself one night, a pair of dull scissors in the yellow light, and he told me that I’d done alright and kissed me ‘til the morning light.
Play
Thanksgiving in tears………
typical.
