(via emilyomahoney)

(via theclassyissue)

simwisesucks:

I wrote this as a letter to The Guardian in response to an article I read yesterday by Terri White. I doubt they will print it, so I thought I would share it here to see what you guys think.

Please share, I think it has some important messages:

I read your article by Terri White with some…

emilyomahoney:

‘ I think the thing is that I shut off from everything.
From friends and family and my own ambitions.
From having fun.
I just shut off from everything.
Self-defeating? Yeah, probably.
But I don’t know that I had total control over it.
And I’m not sure it even matters why.
Sometimes…

laughingsquid:

Reggie Watts on Humor in Music

There is such a wealth of semi-interesting snippets of information. Beyond deciphering the ambiguity of sources, intent and message, we are strained simply by mass. I am strained. A gaggle of ‘hehe’s and ‘oooo’s instead of a few succinct ‘haha’s and ‘wow’s. It all snowballs to such a point that in trying to keep up and digest it all that there’s an implanted sense of nausea from oversaturation. Like glutting yourself fat on a feast of information. Like knowledge obesity.

On top of this (or because of it) you can never truly be full in a pleasant way because the ingestion of information is never organic. It is filtered by means of interpassivity. A million fragments or tidbits of info projected upon us like rain. We absorb those we deem as relevant/interesting. If we do it well we become bloated and float in a semi-conscious muddle of pseudo-factuality. A swap of semi-news.

To live in this: waking at night to blackness and glow-in-the-dark stars. Sleeping in the day and cursing screwed eyes at a sun that sweats me overdressed. I lay and shroud, develop and guzzle the thin layers of my wasted time. Like dirt on skin that I can only know is there by grazing myself together and examining the tiny child of body-lint that is born; I remember.

“Oh but really, how are you?” they ask, with their Sterodent lacquered gums and fascias gleaming like a punch-line awaiting the cackle of laughter but all I can see is plaque. False teeth covered in plaque. I see their pupils waxen and waiting for respite. Their teeth and itching hands hound for a single syllable, for the close to complete the adjacency pair of conversation that can release them from their suspension, as if they might hang around for hours straining millimeter by millimeter to make something out of the silence and numbness. I think some of them know, but really they just don’t want to hear any truths. They want to dance this dance and return to security of routine, for all its banality, it is still theirs. And so, I cut this prisoner free:

“Fine. I’m just fine.”

Bumbling over cracks and pitfalls she elopes with carries in cradle, ready to attack the repertoire of the evening. Does distaste really taste this comfortably tepid? Is it not sharper? Is it not more virile with a shaking rage, pulling synapses out from a slumber like grass wrenched by a child’s hand? No. It wavers in like a drink too large or a meal too fat; cushioning the overspill of gut or belch in a polite and caring manner, wiping dribble from the tongue it pets and inspects the whole whilst whispering:

“It’s okay dear. You’re on the downward but really, it’s okay.”

I am now grasped hair and a heavy night directed into the pan. Love never was more hollow than the resonance of this girl’s chunks in my en-suite. It never needed be and never was more, but if I were fickle and also full from sugary aerated liquids, shaken up with spirits, cold asphalt and a warm senseless loss of sight, would I be the same? Would I look unfocused at the stranger’s tension at my skull to see care and thanks instead of upholstery?

Even bracken — the dead skin of trees — lit fires brighter than this. It is more than the insomnia, more than the throwaway apologies and more than the same slowly sunken shape of my single mattress. I barely manage to stir. Catching myself awake, I lie and it’s fine. It really doesn’t matter if my consciousness is contrite or convicted for my questions are always forgotten when an answer is considered and then it’s like I wasn’t even thinking of anything to begin with.

I return. The fluorescent lighting hums. Intermittent beeps from machines whose location and function I have never known despite hearing their song more than the sound of my own voice. They hush with the monotony of a million whirring fans into a simple cyclonic cadence. Like waves of the retail beach, this is the cycle. The tide.

The sea was black and tungsten with the nicotine hue of the street lamps. The air was mild and there wasn’t a single breeze. Two oil burning lamps floated into the sky and flickered into the deep deep blue: swallowed calmly. At the edge where the streetlights gently stroked the sand, night fishermen idled around their instruments. Closer to the pier a group of kids juggled lighted poles and laughed in cocooned pairs. Solitary figures wandered in and out of the lighted walkways. Near the divide, away from the noise of clubs and restaurants and dog walkers, they hid as a dancing of shadows at the waters edge.

She was playful. She stood at the sighing water and crouched, waving her palms across the surface of the sea foam like she was saying hello to a small and happy child. She jumped up and cantered away from the ebb. Echoing back to it’s falling edge, she was parallel to the water’s swelling and shrinking, like a child running away from a playful adult.

He stood a few yards back and kept his hands firmly in his jacket pockets. Even with the pointed shape this gave his middle, his belly was visible. He looked around cautiously, both excited and nervous of what someone might. He was grinning: trying to contain his disbelief and exhilaration for what she was doing. She was his thrill.

They retreated and carried on walking. She skipped back close to him and his slowed laborious pace seemed as though it had forever been waiting for her to be that few yards closer to him again.

They held hands. They continued.

Your skin screams silent stories of suffering. Mine mirrors and mumbles. When laid we can weave together invisible threads of past, before we knew each other existed. Crosshatched and meshed from even the most delicate of touches. You’re such a beautiful car crash. Your truth: a bloody and hidden mess deep inside the broken barriers of protection, seeping out in the same silence that we create. Like a war film on mute, I control making your turmoil beautiful and silent. I see the eye of your storm where your history rages and whips around us. And we sit there, in that place we run to, and we hide. Together.