A: don't say no to me you can't say no to me because it's such a relief to have love again and to lie in bed and be held and touched and kissed and adored and your heart will leap when you hear my voice and see my smile and feel my breath on your neck and your heart will race when I want to see you and I will lie to you from day one and use you and screw you and break your heart because you broke mine first and you will love me more each day until the weight is unbearable and your life is mine and you'll die alone because I will take what I want then walk away and owe you nothing it's always there its always been there and you cannot deny the life you feel fuck that life fuck that life fuck that life fuck that life I have lost you now.
I asked her where she got her toughness. She pretended she didn't understand. Maybe she didn't at first, or maybe she had forgotten that to do the things she was prepared to do, to have them done to her, took enormous toughness, more than most people had. She said you just had to keep working on yourself until you didn't feel what they wanted you to feel, or anything else. By seven o'clock she had fallen asleep in my arms having said that she loved me and that she knew I was going through hell. She breathed like a little girl.
She slept and I held her. If she had not passed out when she did she might have caught a glimpse of how alone she really was, that is, had all that she had done over the years not dulled her sense of it, perhaps permanently. I have learned what hell is because I am not able to dull the sense of what I have done. Hell is the special pain that dwells in that loss in which you yourself have caused.
" You want to break out of that black tar pit of self-hatred? Brush the black hair out of your eyes, step away from the computer and buy a nice gift for someone you loathe. Send a card to your worst enemy. Make dinner for your mom and dad. Or just do something simple, with an tangible result. Go clean the leaves out of the gutter. Grow a damn plant.
It ain't rocket science; you are a social animal and thus you are born with little happiness hormones that are released into your bloodstream when you see a physical benefit to your actions. Think about all those teenagers in their dark rooms, glued to their PC's, turning every life problem into ridiculous melodrama. Why do they make those cuts on their arms? It's because making the pain-and subsequent healing-tangible releases endorphins they don't get otherwise. It's pain, but at least it's real.
That form of stress relief via mild discomfort used to be part of our daily lives, via our routine of hunting gazelles and gathering berries and climbing rocks and fighting bears. No more. This is why office jobs make so many of us miserable; we don't get any physical, tangible result from our work. But do construction out in the hot sun for two months, and for the rest of your life you can drive past a certain house and say, "Holy shit, I built that." Maybe that's why mass shootings are more common in offices than construction sites.
It's the kind of physical, dirt-under-your-nails satisfaction that you can only get by turning off the computer, going outdoors and re-connecting with the real world. That feeling, that "I built that" or "I grew that" or "I fed that guy" or "I made these pants" feeling, can't be matched by anything the internet has to offer."
Wednesday Morning, 3 A.M. Lyrics
Artist(Band):Simon and Garfunkel
I can hear the soft breathing
Of the girl that I love,
As she lies here beside me
Asleep with the night,
And her hair, in a fine mist
Floats on my pillow,
Reflecting the glow
Of the winter moonlight.
She is soft, she is warm,
But my heart remains heavy,
And I watch as her breasts
Gently rise, gently fall,
For I know with the first light of dawn
I'll be leaving,
And tonight will be
All I have left to recall.
Oh, what have I done,
Why have I done it,
I've committed a crime,
I've broken the law.
For twenty-five dollars
And pieces of silver,
I held up and robbed
A hard liquor store.
My life seems unreal,
My crime an illusion,
A scene badly written
In which I must play.
Yet I know as I gaze
At my young love beside me,
The morning is just a few hours away
before I met you I used to want to lock myself into a vault just to feel precious
but now with every kiss hello and goodbye I feel a self worth no banker could tally.
I have high hopes that this year will be the year the dumb girl in me finally dies. She is long overdue for a painless, or even a painful, death. I'm so sick of listening to her try to convince me of things I know don't make any sense: that the plots of romantic movies are plausible; that men who have cheated repeatedly might suddenly decide to turn over a new leaf; that guys who are assholes might turn out to be more considerate in time.'
He said 'that's called your innocence'
At sixteen, I was illegal and brilliant, my fingernails chewed to half-moons. I took off my clothes in a late March field. I had secret car wrecks, secret hysteria. I opened my mouth to swallow stars. In backseats I learned the alchemy of guilt, lust, and distance. I was unformed and total. I swore like a sailor. But slowly the cops stopped coming around. The heat lifted its palms. The radio lost some teeth.
Now I see the landscape behind me as through a Claude glass—tinted deeper, framed just so, bits of gilt edging the best parts. I see my unlined face, a thousand film stars behind the eyes. I was every murderess, every whip- thin alcoholic, every heroine with the silver tongue. Always some handsome nobodys best girl. Always a lightning sky behind each kiss.
Some days I watch myself in the third person, speak to her in the second. I say: I will meet you in sleep. I will know you by your stillness and your shaking. By your second-hand gown. By your bruises left by mouths since forgotten. This is not an elegy because I cannot bear for it to be. It is only a tree branch against the window. It is only a cherry tomato slowly reddening in the garden. I will put it in my mouth. It will be sweet, and you will swallow.
We [perfect girls] take ourselves very, very seriously. We are the peacemakers, the do-gooders, the givers, the savers. We are on time, overly prepared, well read, and witty, intellectually curious, always moving.
We are living contradictions. We are socially conscious, multicultural and anti-corporate but we still shop at Gap and Banana Republic. We listen to hip-hop, indie rock and country on our iPods.
We are girls in hooker boots, wife beaters and big earrings. We make documentary films, knit sweaters and DJ. We are “social smokers”, secretly happy that the cigarettes might speed up our metabolisms, hoping they won’t kill us in the process.
We pride ourselves on getting as little sleep as possible and thrive on self-deprivation. We drink coffee, a lot of it. We are on birth control, Prozac and multivitamins. We do strip aerobics, hot yoga, go five more minutes than the limit on any exercise machine at the gym.
We are relentless, judgmental with ourselves and forgiving to others. We never want to be as passive-aggressive as our mothers, never want to marry men as uninspired as our fathers. We carry the old world of guilty—center of families, keeper of relationships, caretaker of friends—with the new world of ambition—rich, independent, powerful. We are the daughters of feminists who said, “You can be anything” and we heard, “You have to be everything”.
We must be loved. We must be adored. We must get A’s. We must make money. We must save the world. We must be thin. We must be unflappable. We must be beautiful. We are the anorectics, the bulimics, the overexercisers, the overeaters. We must be perfect. We must make it look effortless.
We grow hungrier and hungrier never close enough to what were here for. The holes inside of us grow
bigger and bigger never filled.
but we as a culture of young women need to learn and love our bodies for the space they take up, not for the space they do not.
we need to calm the perfect girl and feed the starving daughter and find balance and wellness.
in an effort to get people to look into each other's eyes more,
and also to appease the mutes, the government has decided
to allot each person exactly one hundred and sixty-seven words, per day.
when the phone rings, i put it to my ear without saying hello. in the restaurant i point at chicken noodle soup.
i am adjusting well to the new way.
late at night, i call my long distance lover, proudly say i only used fifty-nine today.
i saved the rest for you. when he doesn't respond, i know he's used up all his words,
so i slowly whisper i love you thirty-two and a third times.
after that, we just sit on the line and listen to each other breathe.
Currently, the world's population is:6728752608 (14:07 GMT (EST+5) Dec 5, 2008)
It's an even number. This means that there is someone out there for everyone
This means that there is a 99.99999999999999999999999999% you are not the one
if you love them, tell them, and if it hurts sometimes(all the time), it's best to give up on, if it gets too hard, id suggest stopping and taking a breath, and if you don't like your reflection, work on your imperfections, I know you know what it's like, like I know what it's like to sit there spinning, wishing on shootings stars, reminiscing on broken promises, searching for four leaf clovers, carrying lucky rabbit foots, fingers crossed it'll change the bad luck, you've been regretting the road you've been taking, making deals with god begging for the ones taken to come back, screaming they were not yours for the taken, taking pills to give you thrills, shot after shot slowly drowning, because you know like I know, and they know like we know, what it's like to feel unmistakably undeniably shattered, how the reminders of what could have been always lingers, what it's like to feel like stars, placed far enough to never feel comfort, we know what it's like to be looked at, but looked through, over looked and taken advantage of, we know how just one touch is never enough, we want much more than just one touch, they know the feelings of abuse, and what it's like to be used because they know like you and I know, like we know what it's like to be broken, so even if you think you're above them, even if the three words wont come back from them, tell them you love them
Don’t say you didn’t see this coming
Don’t say you didn’t realize this would be my reaction
and that you never intended for me to get all worked up,
because if that were true, then you are dumber
than Lenny from Mice and Men, blinder than Oedipus
and Tierus put together and can feel less
than a Dalton Trumbo character.
You put the Dick in Dickens and the Boo in kowski
and are more Coward-ly then Noël.
But you don’t understand any of these references,
Do you? Because you ‘don’t read’.
You are a geology major and you once told me
That, ‘Scientists don’t read popular literature,
we have more important things to do’.
Well, fuck you.
Be glad you don’t read
because maybe you won’t understand this
as I scream it to you on your front lawn,
on Christmas Day, brandishing three hypodermic needles,
a ginsu knife and a letter of permission
from Bret Easton Ellis.
You are more absurd than Ionesco.
You are more abstract than Joyce,
more inconsistent than Agatha Christie
and more Satanic than Rushdie’s verses.
I can’t believe I used to want to Sappho you
I used to want to Pablo Neruda you,
to Anais Nin And Henry Miller you. I used to want
to be O for you, to blow for you in ways
that even Odysseus’ sails couldn’t handle.
But self-imposed illiteracy isn’t a turn-on.
You used to make fun of me being a writer,
saying ‘Scientists cure diseases,
what do writers do?’
But of course, you wouldn’t understand
I mean, have you ever gotten an inner thirsting
for Zora Neale Hurston?
Or heard angels herald for you
to read F Scott Fitzgerald?
Have you ever had a beat attack for Jack Kerouac?
The only Morrison you know is Jim, and you think
you’re the noble one?
Go Plath yourself.
Your heart is so dark, that even Joseph Conrad
couldn’t see it, and it is so buried under bullshit
that even Poe’s cops couldn’t hear it.
Your mind is as empty as the libraries in Fahrenheit 451.
Your mind is as empty as Silas Marner’s coffers.
Your mind is as empty as Huckleberry Finn’s wallet.
And some people might say that this poem
is just a pretentious exercise
in seeing how many literary references
I can come up with.
And some people might complain that this poem is,
at its core, shallow, expressing the same emotion again,
and again, and again. (I mean, there are only so many times
you can articulate your contempt for someone
before people get bored.)
But you know what? Those people would be wrong.
Because this is not the poem I am writing to express
my hatred for you.
This poem is the poem I am writing because we aren’t speaking,
and it is making my heart hurt so bad, it is all I
can do just to get up off the floor sometimes.
And this is the poem I am writing instead of writing
the ‘I miss having breakfast with you’ poem, instead of
writing the ‘Let’s walk dogs in our old schoolyard
again’ poem.
Instead of the ‘How are you doing?’ poem, the ‘I miss you’ poem,
the ‘I wish I was making fun of how much you like Micheal Jackson while sitting in front of your parents’ house in your car’ poem, instead of the ‘Holidays are coming around
and you know what that means: SUICIDE!’ poem.
I am writing this so that I can stop wanting to write
the ‘I could fall in love with you again so quickly
if only you would say one more word to me’ poem.
But I am tired of loving you
cause you don’t love me right.
And if some pretentious-ass poem can stop me
From thinking about the way your laugh sounds,
about the way your skin feels in the rain,
about how I would rather be miserable with you,
then happy with anyone else in the world.
If some pretentious-ass poem can do all that?
Then I am gone with the wind, I am on the road,
I have flown over the fucking cuckoo’s nest,
I am gone, I am gone, I am gone.
I am.
this is not a movie, and when the director yells cut...you dont wake up
