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1. I can’t get up at the crack of dawn to carpe fucking diem because I’m out five nights a week chasing laughter and the moonlight.
2. I don’t want to wake up feeling comfortable. Fuck comfort. I want to wake up and know I’ve woken up, I want to feel my life as it happens and if that means a throbbing headache, so be it; I’d rather dance in the dark than under a rainbow.
3. Eat whatever you want, idiots.
4. My breakfast happens at 1pm and I’d like to read whilst I eat it, thankyou very much.
5. I don’t need to stretch, nor do I need to reach for the sky; I am not a member of S Club 7 and my head is already in the clouds.
6. Drink all the water your body needs, put a chopped up lemon in your bottle but never neglect iced tea and vodka - whatever your poison, indulge yourself in it sometimes. Striving for perfection in any aspect of your life is just going to disappoint you; have a shot every now and then.
7. If you’re living life, you might not have time to write down your activities until four in the morning. Your life record may be scribbled onto receipts as you ride the train. That’s okay too; it doesn’t have to be beautiful to be valid.
8. Sleep on a pile of towels if you have to. Sleep in the grass. Sleep at a new friends’ place every night. As long as you’re sleeping next to something you love - whether it be a partner or the latest Palahniuk - scented fabric softener won’t mean shit.
9. Chaos can be better sometimes.
10. Run into the ocean instead.
11. You don’t owe strangers your smile. You don’t owe nature your observation. Maybe you don’t have a dog to walk.
12. Don’t make plans you can’t follow through with, it’s unfair.
14. Fuck it. Pick up a book because you liked the cover. Pick up a book because the person before you left it behind. Scribble all over it if you want. Tear pages out and cut out words if you want. Pick up no books for a month, then ten in a day. Books will always be there.
15. Be yourself without imposing cliched values and movie-romance ideas onto your personality. Do what comes naturally. If you don’t want to pay your speeding fines, don’t fucking pay them, it’s your life. If you don’t like old people, don’t go and volunteer at their homes, you’ll only make everyone there miserable. Find your true bliss rather than assuming you’ll know what it is by sticking your tongue out at babies. You’ll get there, there’s no rush.
16. Don’t fucking daydream about it. Do it. Write your own ending."Fuck Your ‘Sixteen Small Steps to Happiness’, love Daisy Lola (via meatandsarcasmguy)
my chipotle bag really knows me
I am riding in the passenger seat, listening to my mother talk about the ways love has failed her. I can see the fifty-six years on her face, though she wears them well. She has been called “wife” by four men, “girlfriend” by eight names she has slipped into conversation, “lover” by strangers I will never meet. When I curiously ask, “Why stay married if you’re unhappy?”, she goes stiff. ‘You don’t understand,’ she says defensively. ‘You’re just a kid.’
I am seventeen the first time a boy mentions marriage to me. We are giddy with the idea of gaining light by revealing our dark to each other. But we are too entranced by how bold shouting ‘forever’ is to know how suffocating it can be. We have no idea that we will spend months listening to each other punch ‘fiancee’ out of our speech. Or that one day, when we are sharing a bed, we will look forward to getting away from each other in sleep.
At nineteen, I am doodling in the margins of my college notebook, when my teacher says, ‘Second marriages have a 67% chance of ending in divorce. Third marriages have a 73% chance. And if you’re on your fourth, well, really, what are you doing?’ I think of my mother in her fourth unhappy marriage. I think of my father in his fifth. I wonder if picking myself up and trying again is in my genes.
I do not pick myself up and try again when I learn that I am not going to marry the first person I loved. I pack the remainder of my tiny world into two suitcases and leave the photos of us to die on our bedroom walls. I write lots of shitty poetry and tell my ghosts to ‘keep quiet’ when I think nobody is listening. The next time a boy knocks on my chest and asks, ‘How deep do you go?’, I do not show him. I say, ‘Infinitely’ and leave when he complains about the spaces in me he will not be able to fill up.
My ninety-year old grandma, with her silver hips and bullet-wound lips, tells me, in a thick accent, that ‘Nice girls should be married.’ For years, I watched her treat love as the greatest task on her ‘to-do list,’ always cooking and cleaning to keep the relationship alive. But I am too weak, too selfish, too young to carry the weight of love. She says, ‘Find someone nice and settle down,’ but I have a desire for the world that must be fed. And I am trying to first settle the disorder in my head before I think about being sharing my bed."Forever Is Too Large To Promise | Lora Mathis - soggypoetry (via perfect)
I have never thought about it in this context
that’s actually really, really creepy.
I once pointed this out to my mother and she just stared at me, in stunned silence for ages.
There will always be a girl who is less sober, less secure, with less friends walking in a darker part of town. I want her safe just as much as I want me safe.