Once in awhile, I kick around the idea of trying to write a book. Not a novel, but maybe a collection of short stories, or something closer to snapshots of writing.
I think it would be based too closely in reality (or, rather, not loosely enough in fiction) for me to pass off. And I don’t know that my writing, which is usually short and direct and carries little to no plot, would translate well to that sort of thing.
But, sometimes I think about it.
I loooooove her hair! I wonder if I could pull that off. Something in me says no….
"In the end, only three things matter: how much you loved, how gently you lived, and how gracefully you let go of things not meant for you."
Buddhist Saying (via babyheroin)
Today J told me that if I could channel the stubbornness/bull-headedness/strength that oozes out of my pores when it comes to being hard on myself, and instead apply it to everything else in my life, I’d be absolutely unstoppable.
Tattoos and endless blue skies with cotton-ball clouds sailing past, foot traffic on an interstate overpass and international pho. Hummus wraps in the shade and scuffed Chucks on a dirt road. I’ve always missed the best things when they were ripe for the taking. Where is my mind? Where is my mind?
What am I doing? Dear mind, come back, reign in, settle down.
Sometimes I want to throw caution to the wind. Everything would change.
No closer to any kind of truth.
I would tattoo these words up and down my arms, over and under lean ribs, even and narrow script, echoes of my heart and all the places and moments I’ve sought Kerouac, have searched for meaning and the soul of something so much greater than my meager footprints on this earth.
Oh Ben Gibbard. You’re such a wise fellow.
*I’m sure I’ve posted this six hundred times, probably at least once in the last two weeks. I don’t care. This song has haunted me for nearly five years, gaining more and more meaning on each listen.
Gettin’ cray cray
My Other Mother™, ladies and gentlemen.
Me: (mentioning vulgar gift ideas a cousin had suggested and how traumatized I was by the suggestions)
Mom: “You know, that kind of thing’s normal for a bachelorette party. Well, not mine. At mine we just partied.”
Me: “Define ‘partied.’”
Mom: “We ate, and visited, and stayed up much later than we should have.”