Like, I am so sorry that all I can do is take pictures of cowboys, but also I am just really not sorry about that. 

Words to come. 

Packing in in the rain

That’s the Helmet (with Sphinx hiding in the back)

I CANNOT BELIEVE THAT YOU ASSHOLES WONT WRESTLE THE PHONE OUT OF MY HANDS YOU GOD DAMN GOOD FOR NOTHING BEST FRIENDS I HATE U

“NO BREAKFAST. Breakfast is a fool’s meal and I would rather be poisoned than eat a single bite of breakfast. Everything about it is baby food except for the vulgar American meats, which seem to have been carved straight off Paul Bunyan’s own ass. Eggs are just a shape, and toast is the reason the British no longer rule the world: too cozy and complacent. I do drink a coffee, though. I’m not going to pretend the Enlightenment didn’t happen.”

Poet Patricia Lockwood Dreams of Roasted Pturkeydactyls — Grub Street

please go read this entire beautiful thing because patricia lockwood is a goddamn treasure

(via synecdoche)

WONDERFUL

padialogue there’s some words in this about your temple the cheesecake factory that i think you would APPRECIATE. 

that goes for you, too, hellnawhellnaw

I LEFT MY UKULELE SITTING ON THE FLOOR OF MY BEDROOM AND NOW IM LYING IN BED WITH THE LIGHTS OFF AND A MOUSE JUST RAN OVER THE UKULELE AND PLAYED AN INADVERTENT MOUSE TUNE ON IT HAAAAAHAHAHA

A Thursday you’d appreciate, you on my mind, you on the ground, you on the unpaved road. I pause to cheat at the sign announcing Jeffers, elevation 4950, and I spit. And take off with my heart in my hand. Z invites me: to VC and, later, to the mountains, to which I will ride a horse half-wild, with the smell of the trailer on him. My only goal is not to get brushed off. I’m not afraid. I remember falling from Ruby bareback and rolling like a gymnast. I remember the wind knocked out of me for the first time. I’m stronger today than I’ve ever been. I’m more willing to tumble than ever before. 

I’m only making this for myself, and I need you all to know that. 


Anyway I think about how a bottle holds. 

“Sometimes a scream is better than a thesis.”

Ralph Waldo Emerson

(via altlitgossip)

(Source: purplebuddhaproject)

I’m sorry yr roommate isn’t as beautiful as mine.

Dude I am so GOOD at Tinder, and everyone else is SO BAD at it and it’s just so frustrating 

Jesus Christ my whole body

My whole body and then some. 

I run harder than you’ll ever know an animal. I once told her, We are wolves, and that was more than enough, even though I lost it, we lost it, we lost that piece of paper somewhere in a hallway in our high school. I told him about how I would put my fingers through my own sternum to butterfly the ribcage, which was meaningless, which was a mayfly, which was a mayfly in June. The back of your head. The top of your head with the staples in it. I was going to pull on your spinal chord at C7. I was your spinal chord at C7. I was my own body bursting, like out of the ground. I was wearing a short skirt because you told me you liked my ass and you were lying. I was wearing you, I was wearing on you. 

I dreamed we were in a lab where you slept and you told me you could tell that I liked you so I slapped your jaw. I’m stronger today so I’m not ashamed anymore. I’m stronger today because B doesn’t love me, can’t see me in Pony, can’t love me at the Pony Bar. Can’t bear the weight of me. Can’t bear the leeching of the arsenic into the water. Can’t know how good I am at baling hay because he keeps not teaching me how. He won’t tell me when he was, or where he was, or whether he remembers me or not. Kissing. Kissing B. Kissing the entire state of Montana with him, one inch at a time. If I pass one more indian paintbrush, one more wild geranium, one more glacier lily that doesn’t bear the sweet stain of my lipstick I will bury myself in the pale freckled skin of your shoulder and call it enough. When I say bury myself I mean I will open it up with my teeth and crawl inside. I’m not fucking around. 

I’ll cozy up to ball and socket if I fucking have to. 

You can feel the back of my throat pooling in the pit of your stomach. 

I pause, only to think about whether there’s enough of my joy in here, and there isn’t, even though that’s what comes bubbling up, I can’t catch it on paper. I could do this for hours. This mirth. I think I’ll remember it. Putting my hands in O’Dell and thinking about the men who have come before me. Putting my hands in the water and thinking about the men who have come and not thought far enough to do the same for me. Only C’s face, in the doorway, the crinkling of his eyes, the promises, the soft linger of brine and sugar. The rough palms that told me he was honest. The honesty that told me he was rough. Calloused around the edges. C and his strong back. C and his broken bones. C and his body gliding against the pavement, cleaving us, cleft. If you tossed me into the bay I would sink. C and his asking, and his getting, and his body back in Cali where I need it. The difference is I can see the power lines. The difference is they would lead me, if I needed it, back. The difference is that the fine web of electricity aches in me, and where it ebbs the careless wildfire pulls it out. This took a turn. This took a turn too sharp. This broke the knee, this broken knee. 

padialogue:

task

I CANNOT. 

padialogue:

oh i’m sorry task did u think i was done

sadie if i though you were done i would fucking murder suicide

padialogue:

task

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