my problem is my mamma raised me far too nice
to ever wish death on somebody, regardless of how much
they’d harmed me so instead i’m compiling a list
of odd karmatic punishments
for the assholes of my existence like
i hope the girl who ruined my senior year of high school
by bullying the hope out of my bones
has a bad hair day on every first date. i hope
the words she said behind my back tangle around
her head so when people meet her for the first time
they can see how unkind
she really is.
my mother and my father were talking in public
and a policeman asked her if she wanted the
‘dirty hispanic’ to leave her alone
and i really hope that policeman goes home
to heat that never works properly and that
the cold makes his bones ache, i hope the
warmth of my daddy’s sun never kisses
the sweaty temples of men who use their
position of power as an excuse to be racist
the man who hit me until i bled from the
corners of my mouth and who kissed me no matter
how much i asked him to stop better constantly get
his dick stuck in his zipper and i hope a large rash
develops because of it because maybe being
in constant pain will make him learn
i want the teacher who told my friend joe
‘you can’t be a boy just because you say so’
to spill overheated 99-cent coffee on her ironed skirt
every other thursday, i hope it stains because
her words never washed out of his ears either
i hope the boy who broke my heart is
doing well, because i’m doing well too, but i want
the boy who broke my sister by promising forever
when he really meant ‘just until you give me everything’
to get a tattoo with a misspelling
just because i think it would be funny
since he was so afraid of commitment
the man who told my friend to kill herself, just get it over
should wake up to a leak in his roof
that has no particular origin and constantly drips
onto his face no matter where he moves his pillow to
because maybe then he’ll have some idea about
i hope the people who told my brother
he couldn’t succeed
solely based on his disability
constantly hit their heads when getting into the car,
i want them to blink back little black dots
and wonder what they’ve ever done wrong to deserve
this and then i want them to see my brother’s company
on a full-page spread because he’s twenty-four and
making more money than they ever did
my math teacher told me most girls are stupid
with numbers and i hope his wife is funneling large
sums of his money into an offshore account without
him noticing while my english teacher told me
he didn’t expect much because i’m not a native speaker
so i really hope in class one day
he unknowingly passes out one of my poems
and i hope if you’ve been hurt, your life has
turned around. keep your head up,
square your shoulders, trust that
the universe will find some way to sort things out. hold on
until your heart mends. regardless of what happens,
know that happiness
is the best revenge.
”—I can’t wish true evil or true evil will come back to me but that doesn’t mean I want assholes to go around happy /// r.i.d | inkskinned (via inkskinned)
“In an unmoored life like mine, sleep and hunger and work arrange themselves to suit themselves, without consulting me. I’m just as glad they haven’t consulted me about the tiresome details. What they have worked out is this: I awake at 5:30, work until 8:00, eat breakfast at home, work until 10:00, walk a few blocks into town, do errands, go to the nearby municipal swimming pool, which I have all to myself, and swim for half an hour, return home at 11:45, read the mail, eat lunch at noon. In the afternoon I do schoolwork, either teach of prepare. When I get home from school at about 5:30, I numb my twanging intellect with several belts of Scotch and water ($5.00/fifth at the State Liquor store, the only liquor store in town. There are loads of bars, though.), cook supper, read and listen to jazz (lots of good music on the radio here), slip off to sleep at ten. I do pushups and sit-ups all the time, and feel as though I am getting lean and sinewy, but maybe not. Last night, time and my body decided to take me to the movies. I saw The Umbrellas of Cherbourg, which I took very hard. To an unmoored, middle-aged man like myself, it was heart-breaking. That’s all right. I like to have my heart broken.”—Kurt Vonnegut, from a letter to his wife Jane (28 September 1965)
1) You’re going to leave the house at 2AM, 16 with nothing in your pockets but 50 bucks and a bus ticket. It won’t feel real. You’re going to think you’re leaving, but you aren’t going anywhere.
2) Swallow your fucking pride and go back inside. Lock your bedroom door, put your hands over your ears, bring your knees to your chest and when you’re ready, let your walls disintegrate and the sadness flood in, because baby I promise you, you’ll feel better if you just let yourself drown. Even if it’s the third goddamn time that week.
3) He’s going to taste like Newports, Trident spearmint and desperation. You’re going to taste like Lime-a-Rita’s and anxiety. You will tell yourself you need this. But you don’t. I promise you. You don’t. You don’t.
4) You’re going to have girlfriends who fall for boys who treat them like absolute shit. Do not learn from them. If a boy calls you a bitch, spit in his face and leave.
5) Do it even if it’s the hardest thing you’ve ever had to do. Even if you’re still convinced that he was hiding galaxies beneath his skin. Because baby I promise you, he was the always dark night sky and you were always the full moon. No question bout’ it.
“I hate people who write off other people’s talents just because of their taste in movies. I left film-school for that very reason. The first thing the teacher told us was “If you want to make Terminator 2, leave now” and I was like, fuck you man. There could be a kid sat in the corner disheartened because Terminator 2 is the movie he wants to make, that’s his vision and here’s the teacher telling him he can’t do that. He had no fucking right, none of us do. Besides, I think Terminator 2 is a pretty kick-ass movie.”—Paul Thomas Anderson (via bbrando)
“And kid, you’ve got to love yourself. You’ve got wake up at four in the morning, brew black coffee, and stare at the birds drowning in the darkness of the dawn. You’ve got to sit next to the man at the train station who’s reading your favorite book and start a conversation. You’ve got to come home after a bad day and burn your skin from a shower. Then you’ve got to wash all your sheets until they smell of lemon detergent you bought for four dollars at the local grocery store. You’ve got to stop taking everything so goddam personally. You are not the moon kissing the black sky. You’ve got to compliment someones crooked brows at an art fair and tell them that their eyes remind you of green swimming pools in mid July. You’ve got to stop letting yourself get upset about things that won’t matter in two years. Sleep in on Saturday mornings and wake yourself up early on Sunday. You’ve got to stop worrying about what you’re going to tell her when she finds out. You’ve got to stop over thinking why he stopped caring about you over six months ago. You’ve got to stop asking everyone for their opinions. Fuck it. Love yourself, kiddo. You’ve got to love yourself.”—(via chipsnodip)
“Some people are good at being in love. Some people are good at love. Two very different things, I think. Being in love is the romantic part—sex all the time, midday naps in the sheets, the jokes, the laughs, the fun, long conversations with no pauses, overwhelming separation anxiety … Just the best sides of both people, you know? But love begins when the excitement of being in love starts to fade: the stress of life sets in, the butterflies disappear, the sex becomes a chore, the tears, the sadness, the arguments, the cattiness … The worst parts of both people. But if you still want that person by your side through all of those things … that’s when you know—that’s when you know you’re good at love.”—Matthew Healy (via wordsthat-speak)
Imagine your girlfriend taking photographs of you, not selfies, not “outfit of the day”, no Instagram bullshit. Actual photos. When you wake up, when you look at her, when you’re making love, when you’re cooking, when you’re taking a shower. Imagine if your girlfriend did that. This is a person who loves creating a visual documentation of the person she loves. You would cry at every picture she took because you know it’ll be purer than any other visual representation of yourself.
oh my god i’m fucking sick of this generation’s mentality that your sadness is beautiful and somebody will fix you and all this fucking john green shit nobody will find you in a bookstore reading bukowski and want to lie with you and nobody will kiss your scars and you will not be like effie and freddie you’ve got to be your own fucking hero and surround yourself with positivity
If you look at the root of the word “courage,” it doesn’t mean running under the machine-gun bullets of the enemy, wearing a Sylvester Stallone headband, with glistening biceps and bandoliers of ammunition around one’s neck. The word “courage” comes from the old French word coeur meaning “heart.” So “courage” is the measure of your heartfelt participation in the world.
Human beings are constantly trying to take courageous paths in their lives: in their marriages, in their relationships, in their work and with themselves. But the human way is to hope that there’s a way to take that courageous step—without having one’s heart broken. And it’s my contention that there is no sincere path a human being can take without breaking his or her heart.
There is no marriage, no matter how happy, that won’t at times find you wanting and break your heart. In raising a family, there is no way to be a good mother or father without a child breaking that parental heart. In a good job, a good vocation, if we are sincere about our contribution, our work will always find us wanting at times. In an individual life, if we are sincere about examining our own integrity, we should, if we are really serious, at times, be existentially disappointed with ourselves.
So it can be a lovely, merciful thing to think, “Actually, there is no path I can take without having my heart broken, so why not get on with it and stop wanting these extra-special circumstances which stop me from doing something courageous?”
A writer for the new york times interviewed a series of people who had survived jumping off the golden gate bridge. Every person she interviewed admitted that about two thirds of the way down, they realized that every seemingly meaningless problem that caused them to jump was fixable.