Yes and No and Maybe

The ramblings of a token twenty-something: young, wild and indecisive

Snakes. Why did it have to be snakes?

I have a tendency to feel full if I don’t write things down often enough. Not full like ate a second piece of cheesecake full; full like Indy’s boulder is testing the elasticity of my intestines full. Sometimes I find myself getting inexplicably anxious and then I’ll remember the last time I whipped out a pen and realize why. 

I have exactly 72 drafts of various things that I can’t bring myself to finish, for one reason or another. And about 20 more half formed ideas hiding in my skull I have yet to lure out. What’s the best bait for thoughts, does anyone know?

I’ve always found that I am at my most self-destructive in early spring. This seems logical, in a sense. For those of us who live in four season climates all the April showers are a pretty blatant signal that it’s time to toss out the past and dust off the welcome mat for what’s to come.     

Of course this is what I struggle with. I can carry the bags to the curb, but when it’s time to let go I dig my fingernails in and squeeze until my knuckles are as white as the snow we are wishing away. 

Can’t say I’m mad about warmer weather though; it’s almost time for shorts. I’m obnoxiously into shorts. They’re going to put that on my headstone. Megan Honey: loved popcorn & shorts. 

Anything that gets your blood racing is probably worth doing.

—Hunter S. Thompson  (via dieworten)

(via dieworten)

Living dangerously.

Living dangerously.

It doesn’t matter, you know, whether you lock it away or feed it to the wolves. Whole and unbroken or bloody and bruised, either way your heart’s going to stop beating eventually.

Regular hashbrowns < waffle iron hashbrowns.

Regular hashbrowns < waffle iron hashbrowns.

"Wizards collect the cookie extract". 

This is fantastic.

Okay, fine. You win.

But you knew that already, didn’t you?

Jim Rash

—Dean Pelton's Rap



Well, I’m a peanut bar, and I’m here to say
Your checks will arrive on another day!
Another day, another dime, another rhyme, another dollar,
Another stuffed shirt with another white collar,
Criminals, Wall Street, taking the pie,
And all the black man gets is a plate of white lies,
Prisons recruiting, the police be shooting,
Them rap artists looting, them labels all deluding,
And Barack Obama is scared of me,
'Cause I don't swallow knowledge and I spit it for free,
Let me clear my throat!

Jim Rash is perfection.

(via communitythings)

I don’t know how to throw things away. You know this. You’ve seen my bedroom. My belongings are kept well beyond their worth with bits and pieces being added every day. 

You could say that I am a collector of sorts, a collector of maybes and somedays and what ifs.

I am a collector of broken things. But you are not meant to be one of them.

You’re made to be whole, to shine atop an oak mantelpiece, crackling flames reflected in your luster. 

You are made to catch someone’s eye from across the room, to draw people in, to send jaws to the floor.

You’re made for adoration, for praise, to incite envy and amazement. 

You’re not meant for a cardboard prison, to be hidden away, to be saved for later.

You’re meant for right fucking now and for every screaming second after. For as soon as possible and for as long as I can have you.

There is nothing about you to be fixed. I know that now.  

But my biggest mistake is thinking that you are something to be had at all. 

  • Person: I'm on a raw food diet.
  • Me: Cool, I do that too sometimes!
  • Person: Really? Are you raw vegan or vegetarian? Or do you still eat meat that just hasn't been cooked above 40 degrees?
  • Me: Oh, uh, no I just like to eat cookie dough dipped in brownie batter sometimes. My bad.