Reblogged from adventuresingay
I'll probably need therapy in ten years...
EMT, paramedic student, moral skeptic, aspiring gourmand.
“You roll your mouth off him, his taste still smothering your tongue when he says, “There is someone else.”
You laugh. The last time you saw him was a year before when he forced you out of his car somewhere in Queens because you hit him in the arm. He came back ten minutes later, drove you to your dorm at NYU, and you didn’t talk for almost a year when he sent you an email saying he missed you. You thought you loved him, so you invited him to your mom’s house in the Hamptons. He said yes, so you thought that maybe he loved you, too.
You look at the clock next to your bed. It is midnight - officially your birthday.
“Her name is Jackie,” he continues.
You laugh again. Your bed creaks; through the wall, you can hear your mother snoring.
“I really like her,” he says. “I mean I like you, but it’s, it’s just different.”
This is when you ask the question you shouldn’t. “What do you mean different?”
“You know that pumpkin cheesecake we had tonight?”
You nod. Every October, every birthday, your mother’s boyfriend makes you one. It is your favourite.
“You are like pumpkin cheesecake,” Matt says. He leans on his elbow and you try not to look into his eyes. “And Jackie is carrots. You’re great, but not all the time. Jackie is good for me all the time. You know?”
This is the thing you learn about yourself in the first few minutes of being nineteen: you are much more of an adult than last year, because when Matt says this, you don’t reach your hand out to punch him in the face. Instead, you say, “I understand.” Then you roll away from him and close your eyes until you hear his tiny snores rolling through your ribs.
You are mature because you wait. You tip toe to the bathroom and lay your face against the cold tiles and that is where you cry.
You realize that you do not know what love means. However, it is here on your nineteenth birthday you realize what it isn’t. It isn’t having your heart broken on your own bed after giving someone a blowjob on your birthday. It isn’t any of this.
You wonder though why love feels like laying down and letting someone roll over you - why love feels like agreeing to lay down and die.”— Kristen Fiore, “Wrong Ways To Say I Am Not In Love With You” Chapter Three (via framesjanco)
—-
(Source: howcomeicantsleepatnight, via flannelandsatin)
1. I can’t get up at the crack of dawn to carpe fucking diem because I’m out five nights a week chasing laughter and the moonlight.
2. I don’t want to wake up feeling comfortable. Fuck comfort. I want to wake up and know I’ve woken up, I want to feel my life as it happens and if that means a throbbing headache, so be it; I’d rather dance in the dark than under a rainbow.
3. Eat whatever you want, idiots.
4. My breakfast happens at 1pm and I’d like to read whilst I eat it, thankyou very much.
5. I don’t need to stretch, nor do I need to reach for the sky; I am not a member of S Club 7 and my head is already in the clouds.
6. Drink all the water your body needs, put a chopped up lemon in your bottle but never neglect iced tea and vodka - whatever your poison, indulge yourself in it sometimes. Striving for perfection in any aspect of your life is just going to disappoint you; have a shot every now and then.
7. If you’re living life, you might not have time to write down your activities until four in the morning. Your life record may be scribbled onto receipts as you ride the train. That’s okay too; it doesn’t have to be beautiful to be valid.
8. Sleep on a pile of towels if you have to. Sleep in the grass. Sleep at a new friends’ place every night. As long as you’re sleeping next to something you love - whether it be a partner or the latest Palahniuk - scented fabric softener won’t mean shit.
9. Chaos can be better sometimes.
10. Run into the ocean instead.
11. You don’t owe strangers your smile. You don’t owe nature your observation. Maybe you don’t have a dog to walk.
12. Don’t make plans you can’t follow through with, it’s unfair.
13.
14. Fuck it. Pick up a book because you liked the cover. Pick up a book because the person before you keft it behind. Scribble all over it if you want. Tear pages out and cut out words if you want. Pick up no books for a month, then ten in a day. Books will always be there.
15. Be yourself without imposing cliche’d values and movie-romance ideas onto your personality. Do what comes naturally. If you don’t want to pay your speeding fines, don’t fucking pay them, it’s your life. If you don’t like old people, don’t go and volunteer at their homes, you’ll only make everyone there miserable. Find your true bliss rather than assuming you’ll know what it is by sticking your tongue out at babies. You’ll get there, there’s no rush.
16. Don’t fucking daydream about it. Do it. Write your own ending.
Fuck Your ‘Sixteen Small Steps to Happiness’, love Daisy Lola (via iloveyoulessthanpunk)(via cuervoqueen)
A version for tumblr that can be read without opening a new tab, since plenty of people would scroll past this story otherwise.
(via robblerobble)
southerngentlemenscigarsociety:
FOR CARNIVORE EYES ONLY
Prime Time
Time to play “Find the Tumblr Vegan.”
Easy mode.
my mouth watered just looking at this.
(via dayfall)
