SCRUB DUB DUB GOAT IN A TUB
How can you not reblog a soapy baby goat
Goats make me laugh because when they make goat noises their tongue goes out.
AND THAT’S WHEN I KNEW I WAS DEAD
It’s like being in love: giving somebody the power to hurt you and trusting (or hoping) they won’t.
Marina Abramović, Rest Energy
I am looking for you again. In airports when your last name is called over the intercom, through clouds of smoke, in parked cars I pass. I keep telling myself to forget the smoke-screened version of you I have created, the one who has your hair and ambles from place to place. “Think of HIM,” I say. “Of who he really was.”
Think of the piles of dandruff on his pillow, the sarcastic way he said “I love you,” and the way he said, “This doesn’t mean we’re going to date again” after kissing you. Think of the pictures of his hand on her knee only a week after you stopped talking. Think of every minute you spent waiting for him to pick you up. Think of the way he never loved you.
Do not, I repeat do NOT, think of the way he looked at you mid-conversation, or the hours you spent in his bed giggling and hiding under the covers as his fan blew on your back. Do not think of the way he blurted out that he loved you. It was not “perfect”. Quit telling yourself so. Forget the front seat of his car and the humid air that leaked through the cracked window. Burn the field where it happened for the first time to the ground. Do not look back on every moment and wonder where you went wrong or what you could have done to keep his attention.
Erase every damned song that reminds you of him and only listen to songs that came out in the past year, songs that have not been spoiled by his memory. Think of the way he did not want to join in the trivia game at the restaurant you ate your last meal at because everybody else who was playing was in their forties. Think of him pressed against her, the same way he was against you, in a fucking shed. Think of the way your feelings embarrassed him. Do not think of his record collection, or the books you talked about, or the way he touched you. Do not tell yourself that he has been the only one who’s understood. Do not whisper his name. Do not think of him as the first boy to grab your hand as he drove, do not think of him with a noose around his neck, do not think of his kisses. Do not. Do not. Do not.
|—||How To Fall Out of Love | Lora Mathis (via lora-mathis)|
|—||Haruki Murakami, Sputnik Sweetheart (via ahokage)|
I can’t keep doing this to myself, getting my hopes up so high, only to have them come crashing down. I can’t keep waiting for him to come to his senses, having my whole emotional state rest on what he decides. What if he never wakes up to how perfect we’d be together? What if I spend another year pining for him - or longer even? In a terrible flash, I see my future stretching out before me: waiting for his calls, rearranging my life around college visits, and decoding texts and instant messages like they could be something real, something true.
This isn’t love; this is pure torment.
|—||Abby McDonald, Getting Over Garrett Delaney (via tr-nsatlanticism)|
I apologize to you all the time, even when I did nothing wrong, just so we won’t fight, but when you fuck up, it’s still my fault