Ok, this is the best thing to happen to me at #work - I found this under my desk. #puppy #yorkie
It’s way too easy to create beautiful shit when everything sucks.
Three years ago, when I was drunk every night, working three jobs and wasting my time with fuckboys who broke my heart and sent me walking to late night clinics along the side of the highway (no really), I wrote some beautiful shit. I wrote poetic, heartbreaking shit and it was all scrawled into tear-stained notebooks because I was sitting under my kitchen table whilst everyone else got drunk, occasionally accepting another chipped mug of cheap wine that I hated the taste of, getting more ink on my hands than the page yet somehow managing to come up with shit that made everyone who read it weep.
I wrote poetic, heartbreaking shit that made people sit up and pay attention to me, because my life was pathetic and heartbreaking - it’s very easy to trick yourself into thinking it’s the same shit, but it’s not. Being sad every night isn’t the love story of the century, it’s giving in to what’s easy because it’s ‘good for your art’, which is a load of bollocks by the way.
When I met the love of my life, my words soared off the page and created fireworks in the eyes of anyone privy to the inner workings of my heart and my cunt. Why? Because everything was rainbows and oral sex instead of university lectures, that’s why.
It’s not that commendable, to be living an exceptional life and creating exceptional shit. It’s awesome, but it’s expected.
Give me the person who can make my fingers tremble when I read their words, even when their life is monotonous as fuck. Give me the person who’s settled into a comfortable routine, and somehow manages to make syntax dance from their brains to their keyboards and keep it up for longer than a couple of paragraphs - gimme raw shit coming from cushy people - gimme the artist who doesn’t need to be screaming and falling down on the bathroom floor in order to create characters that are - give me something well written that didn’t come from despair or a bout of post-orgasm delirium.
I can guarantee you, that’s a whole other kinda skill.
— Whole Other Kinda Somethin’, Daisy Lola. (via spearmintblonde)
"You’re always saying you need a new bra."
Potentially nervous. Anyone got any advice?
Roger Angell reflects on Derek Jeter’s final home game:
“The Yankees’ season had, for all purposes, ended with a loss the previous evening, which mathematically eliminated them from post-season play. They didn’t make it into October last year, either, but Derek had not played in any late games after his sidelining by that severe ankle injury. Last night’s encounter was the first meaningless game he’d ever played in pinstripes—but then he gave it meaning.”
Photograph by Suzy Allman/The New York Times/Redux