These quiet adventures

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[bluebonne-blog]

there's still a hole in your heart

[bluebonne-blog]

Not quite sure of the identity of this | Maine

[nevver]

Calvin and Hobbes

[bluebonne-blog]

Today I ran a 30k trail race (that's about 18 miles of hills and rain soaked slippery rocky trails) on about 3-3.5 hours of ok sleep because a) I was dumb, b) evidently a large strong cup of black coffee at 5 pm will still keep me up at 2 am, and c) all of my anxieties became exponentially worse with each hour that I couldn't fall asleep, making it more and more difficult to allow myself to succumb to some sort of unconsciousness. Anyways, there's really no point to this post besides the fact that I'm tired as fuck, my legs feel ok, and I probably ate back every calorie I burnt away with ice cream and pizza (can't help eating free food at the end of a race). Also trail running is much more fun than road running. Even if it made me want to cry at some points, it is much more interesting than staring at the same set of pavement for hours.

[bluebonne-blog]

on repeat.

[bluebonne-blog]

[bluebonne-blog]

Somewhere out there is an ocean

[bluebonne-blog]

The Oatmeal hits the nail on the head.

[itsfrantastic]

If you’re not drinking Michigan beer, unfollow me, probably.

[bluebonne-blog]

This might kill me. Goddamn you Connecticut and your lack of Bell's

[bluebonne-blog]

"Don’t fuck with my girls." - bull

[bluebonne-blog]

There's a mockingbird outside making his way through his repertoire (an impressive one), and I wonder if he doesn't care or just doesn't realize that he's the only bird awake at midnight.

[jessicavalenti]

One of the strangest anti-feminist stereotypes to me – among the Birkenstock-wearing and bra-burning – is the idea that we’re unhappy. Angry. Bitter. Both because the foundation of the insult is the assumption that women should be perpetually happy, and because the truth is that the culture doesn’t actually mind if women are unhappy – so long as we keep it to ourselves. Women’s distress directed inward – from eating disorders to feelings of inadequacy – keeps the status quo moving along, with diet pills selling through the roof and women asking for promotions far less often than their male counterparts. But when our dissatisfaction takes an outward turn, people get uncomfortable. Then, women’s emotions are “hysterical” or over-the-top. Anything less than a bubbly disposition means that we’re “bitches”. Hell hath no fury like a man who finds a woman displeasing.

From “Why are women so ‘unhappy’?”, my latest at the Guardian. (via jessicavalenti)

Sitting in bed—braless, with my Birkes by the door—and very, very happy. 

(via whenyouhiccup)

[wickedlikewildfire]

I can be someone’s and still be my own.

Shel Silverstein (via onkh-m-maat)

[bluebonne-blog]

Bittersweet goodbye

In honor of my last day as a substitute teacher tomorrow, here's a collection of the names I've gone by with the students in the past five months.

Ms. Lathrop? (for the endless "may I go to the bathroom"s)

Ms. Lathrop! (for the few who are actually excited to see me)

Ms. L (for those who give me blank stares when I first say my name)

Little Madame (because my mom is the high school french teacher)

Big L (because 6th graders)

Ms. Bathroom (written on board, because 11th graders)

"the blond one" (overheard)

"Ughhhh..." (for most everyone)

[bluebonne-blog]

What kind of beast would turn its life into words? What atonement is this all about? —and yet, writing words like these, I'm also living. Is all this close to the wolverines’ howled signals, that modulated cantata of the wild? or, when away from you I try to create you in words, am I simply using you, like a river or a war? And how have I used rivers, how have I used wars to escape writing of the worst thing of all— not the crimes of others, not even our own death, but the failure to want our own freedom passionately enough so that blighted elms, sick rivers, massacres would seem mere emblems of that desecration of ourselves?

Adrienne Rich, 21 Love Poems, VII

[bluebonne-blog]

Here's to that old familiar weight of loneliness, creeping into my bones, my heart, weighing them down  and making them stone.

[nevver]

Lost horizons, Hans Jörgen Johansen