Untitled.

hearthside: ☾ ☽

Sat, 18 May 2013 00:44:37 -0400

hearthside:

☾ ☽

I could love you better.

Sat, 18 May 2013 00:44:29 -0400

I could love you better.

How

Sat, 18 May 2013 00:43:58 -0400

How did I let it get to this?
You’ve turned me into someone I barely even know.
Just like I barely even know you.

nevver: Last Exit to Brooklyn

Fri, 17 May 2013 22:13:27 -0400

nevver:

Last Exit to Brooklyn

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Fri, 17 May 2013 21:53:54 -0400

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Fri, 17 May 2013 21:52:46 -0400

Dianna Agron & Ryan Gosling

Fri, 17 May 2013 12:14:19 -0400

Dianna Agron & Ryan Gosling

by Peter Lindeberg for Vogue US, December 1987

Thu, 16 May 2013 22:45:40 -0400

by Peter Lindeberg for Vogue US, December 1987

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Thu, 16 May 2013 22:44:54 -0400

Sunk Cost Fallacy

Thu, 16 May 2013 14:31:58 -0400

http://www.theatlantic.com/health/archive/2013/05/how-to-walk-away/275833/

http://thoughtcatalog.com/2013/walking-away-doesnt-make-you-a-bad-person/

My Home is Your Body

Wed, 15 May 2013 22:01:00 -0400

Well, that’s not entirely true. I know that part of me is still in Barcelona, where I touched another body and my parents couldn’t say anything about it. It was the first time I felt like I was a real person who had a future that she could decide for herself, and it was too important not to take a little something with it when I left. I made a lot of mistakes that summer, but they were all my own. And that is the only other time I really remember feeling the same way I do when I am around you.

It’s that feeling of weightlessness, that feeling that anything is possible. I know that you are bad for me in the way bad food or excessive alcohol is, and yet, every time you call me, there is something about you which draws me to lie down next to you. When I was 19 in Barcelona, I was following a kind of magic that was everywhere, on every street. It’s the intoxication of the new, the unknown, the promise. It was the kind of moment where just being alive gets you so painfully high you feel dizzy when you stand up. When I’m with you, I can smell the restaurants with their doors wide open and see the people spilled out all over the terrace with glasses of white wine in their hands.

You kissed me outside my door and I was 19 again. Weeks later, when you forgot to come pick me up for the birthday party we were supposed to go to together, you told me that you didn’t realize we were “a thing.” I heard that you had been fucking another girl — a Spanish girl, because the irony of the universe is nothing if not consistent — and you thought I was getting “clingy.” You wanted to remind me that, whatever I thought we had, there was significantly less of it than I was inclined to believe. It felt like someone had taken the roof from over my head when it was raining, that I was out in the cold again after so long pretending that I had somewhere to go back to.

But I still came when you called. I came to your house, then I came on top of you, afraid of what my body looked like in such bright light and such complete nudity. You used to insist that I be completely naked, that I not bring up a blanket to cover my chest and stomach. I would lay down in the crook of your arm and feel like I was finally somewhere that wanted to have me. I never felt more beautiful, more desired, more comfortable in my environment. You said, “You are such a beautiful girl. I don’t know why you ever question yourself.” The truth was, I didn’t question myself when I was with you. Yours were the only compliments that mattered, the only things I really wanted to hear.

You got another girlfriend, one that you were serious about. One you took around to meet your parents, one you made a home for in your body just as you did with me, but one that existed outside of the confines of the bedroom. It was like hearing that someone had moved into my apartment while I was at work and claimed it as their own, that I was in a nightmare that no one else seemed to realize was strange at all. She was beautiful, which should not have been as surprising as it was.

I told you about my summer in Barcelona one time. I told you about the restaurants, my friends, the apartment I slept in more often than I did my own because all of my friends were there and they had much better ventilation. I told you how it felt, how it was home in a way that not many other things have been since. You laughed and said, “You fucked some Spanish dude and ate a lot of shellfish? Sounds like a trip,” as you put on your jeans. “Come on,” you told me, “I gotta get going.”

Boys I’ve Kissed

Wed, 15 May 2013 21:52:00 -0400

P

You tasted like cigarettes, and your accent was strange in retrospect. You gave me a flood of mixed emotions: I judged you harshly for dropping out of high school to sell real estate, then envied you for that brand new Ferrari you bought with your salary, then felt sad for you when the economy crashed .

E

You had too many long island iced teas. You were drunk, I was helping you walk. Slobber. Everywhere. Your tongue was basically licking my face. You told me you gave me a C for kissing skills. Then someone stole my purse and iPhone, when I wasn’t looking. You fell asleep on my couch that night, you were always just a confused kid.

W

You kept buying me martinis. So many martinis. I was nothing but mean to you, but you sent me flowers. You kissed like a girl. I told you this isn’t going to work I like the, “Push me against the wall types.” You said, “Yeah you would.” You wanted to know when I was ready to get married. Jesus. Married? No. I still need do stuff. Important stuff like hike the himalayas, trek Machu Picchu, sail the Greek Islands, I can’t marry you right now. You still text me sometimes. I’m still not interested.

Q

You were the “push me against the wall” type. Your eyes always wandered at me. You talked about your sexual exploits the same way people talked about their sunday afternoons. I thought you were beautiful in this tormented soul kind of way. We started kissing, and you screamed at me to take my ****ing pants off. I was terrified. I couldn’t handle the push me against the wall type. I ran. Fast. You still call me someone times, I’m polite never receptive. Maybe..thirty year old you will be a gentlemen with those those same smoldering dark eyes.

T

You were the bartender. I wanted a free drink. I think you were from New Jersey. I liked your smile.

R

You said your name. I practically fainted. Everything about you oozed sexuality. You were half latin, half something else. You weren’t tall, or ridiculously fit- but your face was simply astonishing. My knees got weak just talking to you. Then you looked at me and said, “I think we had a class together last semester. Don’t you wear a little red skirt a lot?” And with those words I decided to flip the switch and become the predator not the prey. You looked like a deer in headlights for a second but then you didn’t mind at all.

—-

M

You were like Q and I was like T. Except you didn’t scare me, you awakened my sleeping soul. You were a push me up against the wall type and I melted for your smile. But you were in love already, and I had someone too. Sometimes I wish we were in love each other, I think I would’ve liked that. Maybe someday…I hope you keep in touch.

"It feels good to think about you when I’m warm in bed. I feel as if you’re curled up there beside..."

Wed, 15 May 2013 21:45:09 -0400

“It feels good to think about you when I’m warm in bed. I feel as if you’re curled up there beside me, fast asleep. And I think how great it would be if it were true.”

- Haruki Murakami

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Wed, 15 May 2013 18:10:14 -0400

"Do you realise how devoted I am to you, all the same? There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you, dearest..."

Wed, 15 May 2013 18:01:53 -0400

“Do you realise how devoted I am to you, all the same? There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you, dearest Honey.”

- Virginia Woolf in a letter to Vita Sackville-West, 16 February 1927

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Wed, 15 May 2013 17:55:54 -0400

I Am Definitely Not Staring At My Phone, Wondering If And When You Will Text Me

Wed, 15 May 2013 17:28:40 -0400

I am definitely not staring at my phone, wondering if and when you will text me, because that is something that lovelorn teenage girls do, and while I might still be in the final throes of teendom I will not be a slave to cliches.

I am definitely not lying in bed and thinking about that one perfect night when I fell asleep with your head on my sheets and woke up with your bare chest against my back. I am definitely not burying my head in my pillows a month later to see if I can still smell your hair or your musk.

I am definitely not remembering the feel of your fingers when I touch myself. There is no way at all that I am recalling the shivers you gave me, the glorious sense of anticipation that twisted my insides into origami until I thought they were pretty enough for you to see. I am definitely not imagining your face buried between my thighs and of course I am not upset that this never materialised. Because it’s not something I’m giving any consideration to.

I am definitely not sitting in the sun and letting my mind wander to what you’re doing in the nice weather. I definitely don’t wish you were beside me and we were just talking, because sometimes when you spoke I tuned out and just stared at your lips — the perfect Cupid’s bow and the way you pouted when you were thinking — and I am definitely not thinking about your lips.

I am definitely not still mentioning your name in conversation, and then catching myself doing it, making a mistake, like referring to a deceased person in present tense instead of past. I am not hoping you find yourself doing the same thing, saying my name and wishing you weren’t. And when I informed my friends about what happened between us, I definitely did not take your side and defend you when they called you a douche and a dick.

I am definitely not wishing you would call me and let me know you made a mistake and ask me if we can start over.

I am definitely not trying to cast a shadow over my memories of us together so I can tell myself I wasn’t really happy, so it will hurt a bit less when a Passenger song or a chocolate chip briochet or a reference to your alma mater reminds me of you.

I am definitely not driving for an hour in the rain to see you for a platonic cup of coffee, when I should be doing all manner of other things. I am definitely not still at your beck and call, moulding myself to your every whim without you even realising it, and I am definitely not bitter about this. I don’t hate myself for still wanting to touch your cheek or stroke your knee, and instead I keep my hands wrapped tightly around my chai latte. I am not disappointed that we don’t even hug when we say goodbye, and I absolutely don’t stop driving on the way home and cry at the side of the road over how this is probably the last time I will ever see you. I am also not amused by the stereotypical pathetic fallacy and laughing hysterically over it as the tears continue to fall.

And I am definitely not writing about you.

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Mon, 06 May 2013 23:12:39 -0400

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Mon, 06 May 2013 22:58:07 -0400

"You are not weak just because your heart feels so heavy."

Mon, 06 May 2013 22:48:33 -0400

“You are not weak just because your heart feels so heavy.”

- Andrea Gibson (via thosehearts)