I Do What I Want

But I do it for good. Also, Mo Money, Mo Prollemz



Today is going to be such a long day but I’ll get through it with God.

To My Dearest

To my dearest A:

We haven’t really done it—done it—but you should know that everything smells like you—the pillows and the comforter that you rolled around in, the sheets and even my blanket that you tried to steal. The ease with which my sheets absorbed your scent means they hunger for you as much as I do, possibly as much as a pack of wolves, who, just having caught the scent of their naked, vulnerable prize elk, will not let it go even if it means diving into a rushing river and appearing on the other side again. The scent is so strong that it will not dissipate, even when they run headlong into the water, because time flows by just as quickly when they are ravenous for dinner. It’s true that that is dramatic, and that sheets are only sheets, but I believe my comforter and my pillows agree. Your sister once told me that my bed was the safest place in the world. I wonder what you would think of that. The sheets clamor for attention, though, so going back to them, I must tell you that they rip and tear softly at your skin all night long and dear God, I’m jealous that they get closer than I could ever dare to.

On the first day, I awoke in bliss and then stumbled around the kitchen in a stupor when you left, unsure if the scent of you was stuck in my nose or in my mind or in the air particles from my sheets, which must have wanted more of you. In fact, they are demanding right now that you return to them so that you can envelop them the same way they enveloped you that night.

On the second day, I could not awake. You were not next to me. Wolves cannot go an entire day without eating. My dearest one, you should know that there is no need to reminisce about the past, and yet here I am doing that very thing.

To my dearest AA:

Your poem was beautiful, but when you were reading it out loud, your voice spoke the same line to me over and over. “Be with me now. “ How slow is too slow? How fast is too fast?

Too fast is twirling around all night with glamorous people in scarlet gowns and emerald wedding dresses, in indigo tuxedos and the occasional person in the emperor’s new clothes. I am learning how to dance this dance that you are learning at the same time, and I must have stumbled on one step because even though I swear to God that we started at the same time, you’re two steps ahead of me, at the same pace as everyone else, but I only want to learn from you. I should know this dance. I need to know this dance. It was supposed to be something like one-two-three-four-FIVE-one-two-three-four-FIVE but no one saw fit to warn me that it would be more like one-TWO-four-three-FIVE-one-THREE-five-two-FOUR but interestingly enough, you’re dancing with the other one-two-three-four-FIVE people. That one girl doesn’t know me, but if she wants to know you, she has to know me.

You should know that I have someone who makes my bedsheets tingle. Dancing is hard. Sleeping is not.


One day, one of two things will happen to me.

 A black hole will come for me, and only me, and it will crush me down into less than an atom, and I know this because I had a dream about this and my drams are prophetic. When you’re smaller than an atom, you can travel anywhere instantaneously and with very little effort, but the one drawback is that you cannot choose where you’ll be taken. If you know where you’re going ahead of time, you can prepare, but that’s it. The black hole will take me to see the sorry state of my heart, I know, which , by the time I make it to finally come visit, will have atrophied into some grotesque monster. At that point I must pretend to diagnose anew what disease I already know so that the black hole will stop peering over my shoulder with its palpable disappointment and its weird, unnerving, and overall unhelpful room-shaking humming. I will exclaim loudly “This heart is suffering from unlove!” and before I can wrap my lips around the last syllable of the last word, the black hole will disappear. The heart will be falling apart, and here is why: a decade of unlove is terrible, but you can still live. A decade and a yeah, however, will kill you on the very last day. I can’t die of this. Unlove is not the state of not being loved, rather, it is the state of not loving. It is manifest in every single imaginable way, and the more aware of the unlove you are, the more havoc it wreaks on the heart. Personally, unlove and I are good old friends and it has saved me from a great many heavy disappointments, but it appears daily to remind me that I interrupted my brother, who hardly ever speaks; that I pushed my best friend in line before meaningless work that will not matter in a year; that even though I had a nightmare about my mother lying in a coffin I still left her a thirty minute mess to clean in the kitchen while I grumbled in my head about her making noise at 6 am; that I picked at my skin until my face had more than just an undertone of red; that I didn’t reblog my own selfie; that I stopped asking how my best friend’s day was at the beginning of the conversation, and that I slept.

 Conversely, I could also ascend on a golden dragon to the land where everything I’ve ever loved awaits me.

"Good Morning"
“How was your day?”
“Be careful”
“Text me when you get home so I know you’re safe”
“Sweet dreams”
“How are you?”
“I hope you’re feeling better”
“Have a good day today!”
“I miss you”
“Good night”
“Can you come over?”
“Can I come over?”
“Can I see you?”
“Can I call you?”
“You’re beautiful”
“Want something to drink?”
“Watch your step”
“Let’s watch a movie”
“What are you up to?”
“How is your day so far?”
“It will be okay”
“I’m here for you”
“Do you need anything?”
“Are you hungry?”
“I just wanted to hear your voice”
“You just made my day”

You don’t have to hear “I Love You” to know that someone does. Listen carefully. People speak from the heart more often than you think.

Blocklava (via cutely-perverted)

(Source: blocklava, via andshefalls)


When my straight friends refuse to cuddle with me.

(Source: orangeskins, via insertcleverurl-here)


u think white ppl don’t have problems??? yeah well where’s my upper lip

(via ssssboyd)




Freddie Mercury’s vocal range, ladies and gentlemen.

We are not worthy

fuckin how




Freddie Mercury’s vocal range, ladies and gentlemen.

We are not worthy

fuckin how

(via ssssboyd)



Hide yo’ Uchiha eyeballs.

Seriously man. Especially after that chapter.


What if you caught your mom having sex

(via lilsucia)

(Source: sizvideos, via aurantii)





Lap dance to this song »»

^trying bruh

this shit right here bruh bruh

Ughhhh my song.

(Source: m-d-b-m, via chillona)

1 day ago - 4229



This song doe

chills! so cute ‘-‘


I know I’m not the only one who was insanely attracted to Ciara in her Like A Boy video


I know I’m not the only one who was insanely attracted to Ciara in her Like A Boy video

(via lux-thelighteyed-lesbian)