October 2009
September 2009
Play
Play
Play
Someday I’ll wish upon a star
And wake up where the clouds are far
Behind me.
Where troubles melt like lemon drops
Away above the chimney tops
That’s where you’ll find me.
-Somewhere Over the Rainbow
dear past,
please stop affecting my present and future.
love,
kim.
i got called ugly for the first time by someone other than my brothers to my face on friday. i wish i could say it didn’t affect me. but it did. i’m really bummed about it, especially since it’s with a guy that i had some weird kinda thing with about a year ago.
now whenever i look at myself i gag a little bit more than i used to, which makes me feel sick since i had finally accepted my looks as my God-given looks.
maybe someday i’ll learn to not care what other people think, but i’m 19, i obviously still care.
“you will marry the first person who tells you your eyes look like scrambled eggs.”
—
(via candfood)
but you were the first person that told me that.
Play
10699.) When I log onto Skype, and the opening window says "Take a deep breath," I do.
(via blogsecret)
Departmental
An ant on the tablecloth
Ran into a dormant moth
Of many times his size.
He showed not the least surprise.
His business wasn’t with such.
He gave it scarcely a touch,
And was off on his duty run.
Yet if he encountered one
Of the hive’s enquiry squad
Whose work is to find out God
And the nature of time and space,
He would put him onto the case.
Ants are a curious race;
One crossing with hurried tread
The body of one of their dead
Isn’t given a moment’s arrest-
Seems not even impressed.
But he no doubt reports to any
With whom he crosses antennae,
And they no doubt report
To the higher-up at court.
Then word goes forth in Formic:
“Death’s come to Jerry McCormic,
Our selfless forager Jerry.
Will the special Janizary
Whose office it is to bury
The dead of the commissary
Go bring him home to his people.
Lay him in state on a sepal.
Wrap him for shroud in a petal.
Embalm him with ichor of nettle.
This is the word of your Queen.”
And presently on the scene
Appears a solemn mortician;
And taking formal position,
With feelers calmly atwiddle,
Seizes the dead by the middle,
And heaving him high in air,
Carries him out of there.
No one stands round to stare.
It is nobody else’s affair
It couldn’t be called ungentle
But how thoroughly departmental
-Robert Frost
(718): did the hipsters beat you up because you are more ironic than they are?
ok, something about hipsters cracks me up. i really don’t know what it is.
