May 31 2012
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May 27 2012
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May 21 2012
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why will smith is still cooler than thou
May 16 2012
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Anonymous asked: Have you done tumblrdatinggame(.)com yet?
ooooh I don’t think my boyfriend would approve haha
May 15 2012
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I’ve shown affection for a lot of people
But I still can’t hug my best friend.
There have been sessions of crying over our love lives and laughter till our eyes welled up.
But still something is quite off when we attempt a nonchalant goodbye embrace.
I could tell the girl everything and not one ounce of judgment would be passed.
But for some reason every time we stretch out our arms it’s a mutual “Nuh uh. Nope. This is weird. Can’t do it.”
Still, I don’t think friendship is measured in the physical affection you show.
It’s not a matter of documenting every moment you spend together so you can give of the illusion of “hey no really guys we’re bffs!”
Or the shameless act of hitting up the twittersphere in order to announce to the world that you are hanging out. (although we are guilty)
It’s in the unashamed views of spending entire days doing nothing.
But most importantly the prominent thought that no one else will ever find you more hilarious.
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[Flash 9 is required to listen to audio.]
I can’t believe I slept on her for so long.
(Source: soundboard, via soundboard)
May 09 2012
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this video is whoa.
May 06 2012
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For love always is real, everyday: Worst Poetry by Sarah Kay
Without question, you are the worst thing that ever happened to my poetry.
And I’m serious, I’ve heard about writer’s block but this- is ridiculous. My poetic fluidity has dried up faster than a woman hitting menopause to the point where this dry spells got me praying for some inspirational discharge to leak from the folds of grey matter in my brain and…shit! See what I mean?
I’ve been thinking for far too long with my heart instead of my head, and I think people may be starting to notice and I’ve got a reputation to uphold man! And no it’s not my time of the month, so don’t ask. It’s my time of the day, or what used to be, when I could sit down and write a really gritty, angry poem, one that just seething with angst- but now I can’t! Because I’m just too damn.. happy! Or should I say sappy?
Because I used to watch Face the Nation for international news, then the Daily Show for international hope, turn out great political satire ripe with biting wit and sarcasm… but I can’t do it any more!
You know why? Because I don’t watch those shows any more, because you’ve got me watching the stars- and I don’t mean Brad and Angelina, no- I mean those stars. You’ve got me watching them, thinking about whether you’re watching the same ones as me and- maybe that would make a good poem? And, and, and… this is crap!
Like a slap across the face of my muse who’s had to withstand so much abuse she’s threatened to leave my side, leave my mind! I try to tell her: please, it’s just not a good time, but she leaves me with my please and really bad rhymes and- I can’t do this!
I refuse to let my words sink to such levels of atrocity, refuse to submit to “Roses are red, violets are blue, my poetry sucks and it’s all thanks to you!” But you turn my brain to mush and it’s so hard not to let my thoughts run off in moments of ridiculous romanticism and irrelevant metaphors like- dipping my tongue and hands into the paint can of my mind, I splatter gooey gobs of thought onto the wall, then watching as the rest of the world tries to make sense of my lovesick babble, they come with black sharpies and try to connect the dots, forming man-made constellations from my nonsensical thoughts…
And this has to stop! Because writing in abstract metaphors so that you think I have a more poetic view on the world than you is against my poetic ethics. Which, rhymes with ethnic, which, incidentally is one more poem topic you have rendered useless. Because I’m a hoppa, means I’m of mixed blood, which means I never fit inside the check-mark box, always fall between the cracks, and always writing about finding my culture, where I belong.
But those poems have fallen to the wayside as I find I belong up against your chest, your arms around my back, my head under you chin, eyes closed.
I sit down to write a poem, and the only thing in my head is you- and I don’t understand why you’re the worst thing that every happened to my poetry, if you’re the best that ever happened to me
