Monterey Bay Aquarium
shark vs the universe
izzy's playlists!
Mike Driver
YOU ARE THE REASON
cherry valley forever
祝日 / Permanent Vacation
Origami Around
dirt enthusiast
No title available
$LAYYYTER
Kiana Khansmith
Stranger Things
hello vonnie
taylor price
PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH
we're not kids anymore.
2025 on Tumblr: Trends That Defined the Year
trying on a metaphor
occasionally subtle
seen from Türkiye
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@spunk-182-blog
I got a job at a group home for folks with mental illnesses. Same organization I’m working for now, but it’s full-time with benefits (!!!), hourly pay (fixed schedule, time and a half over forty), and the schedule is Wednesday through Saturday, getting off early Saturday morning and allowing for lots of free time to do WHATEVER. It’s pretty ideal. I’m really excited and I think I can sustain it until I start grad school next fall.
I love my job and I’m happy I moved, but I’m pretty sure I’m just going to shrivel up and never have sex again. The prospects are awful and working with nonverbal, profoundly developmentally disabled folks has shot my social skills to hell. I guess I’ll just die cuddling my dog, which is probably preferable anyhow, tbh.
Time passes so slowly up here. Five weeks feels like a lifetime. The temperature has climbed by fifty degrees, there are daffodils everywhere, I’ve gone on a date, a great one, I have my first job interview for a great job on Tuesday, my dad and I are switching cars so I won’t have a car payment soon, and I am just so excited at the prospect of having savings and getting on my feet and being a whole adult person again. I’m still healing from a lot and I feel so isolated here and that feels unnatural, but I also feel clearheaded and I’m finding things I love to do alone and I have my dog and I think I can find a way to make myself happy here. I think it’s really possible.
I don't know how to write anything like this anymore without being embarrassed. I'm not a self-indulgent teenager. I don't need to render confession, lay bare my confessional poetry, at the blog altar to affirm my position in the universe, but I want to anyway in this moment, at this particularly vulnerable juncture. I need a repository for these contrary impulses ((again, as in a distant past)) and I'm tired of apologizing for taking up space in the world. "I'm so sorry if I'm alienating some of you..."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I feel as if knowing you ruined my life. ((What bombast from this woman, her perspective lost!)) It’s not as though I won’t continue on, no. I’m not saying I’m a broken person, that I left pieces of myself scattered in the desert you call your own. I’m not assuming the role of overwrought martyr, the princess sanctified in her sanctimony. I know you take no pleasure in this, yet I feel the power I give you and I begrudge us both for it. No, instead of being merely discernibly destroyed, intelligible in my pitiable state as I gender that and then hate myself for doing so ((“Stop succumbing to romantic impulses//Stop chastising yrself for feeling something just because you’re acting out yr internalized misogyny!!” -- I am always already myself and I'm always already sorry for that--)), I am creating a virtual prison for myself picturing what could and should have been, writing bad prose about missed opportunities, watching my life disappear because I am all vitriol and vaporous envy. No one can see this, and it's been years, so I think this officially qualifies as Freudian melancholia, "a pathological mourning without end." In my life, it is the wound that will not heal when it should, a private shame to carry, those last licking flames of romantic love, so much more aberrant than tangible losses, big disappointments, actual deaths. I have dreams, literal sleeping dreams, of running into you and marrying you the next day. In the fashion of any dream, I accept that as reasonable, desirable, fated, even, only to wake up and realize I can’t call, I can’t explain, and I don’t have an address to send you a letter and tell you this happened and that maybe it means something. All channels are blocked. I feel as though I lose you and myself by extension all the time, these younger versions of ourselves, so assured of their places in the universe, fading beyond the scope of my peripheral vision. Note that I didn’t say that it’s YOU that ruined my life, as we are fond of saying in anger. It’s not about anything you did, I suppose. I’m not angry about transgressions anymore. It’s only that I am perpetually bereft. It is as though my experiences are notes I’m writing to pass to you, my person, the one I relied on to understand, but you aren’t there to pick them up. You can’t anymore. I have to steel myself for knowing I must hold on to all of it alone. The worst part is that in saying all of this, I realized I miss having someone to relay my life to, not to share it with. You were always on the other side of the tin can when I wanted you in my bed. I know we’re wrong for each other. I know it’s not you I love. You’re not this fictive lover who plucked the brambles out of my hair when I fell down the first time I got drunk ((on bourbon, on momentary heartbreak, on enchantment with a clear-eyed nineteen year old boy)). That was one night, not our eternity, full of hurt, tumult, euphoric highs and drastic lows unfit for the strongest of hearts to labor through continually. Far too young to act so old, you say, and you were right. You brought out the ugly in me. Love gives teeth. I feel you as a second skin and still, I slough you off. When I talk about you, I have nothing good to say until I wax rhapsodic about how deeply we loved each other, but golly, no one believes me when I tell them all the things we did. I remember you not as you are and were, but as my consummate. I spit venom and still, it's all for you. Did my love elevate you, baby? Elevate me later. All this is old news.
Hey, so I haven't really used Tumblr in a long time, but I went to this conference over the weekend in DC and even the story of how I got there was a total whirlwind and I was not even remotely prepared, but I'm now up for a job at Working America, the community affiliate of the AFL-CIO, basically the point person of their national field campaign, mentoring twenty-five office managers nationwide, and their national recruiting manager loves me and had a special meeting with me while I was still in town to walk me through the organizational structure and explain how to package myself, and I think my odds are great, honestly. I'm just kind of freaked out because I get to pick what city I live in after I work remotely and save money and I could work at AFL-CIO HQ in DC or move to Chicago and I just. don't. know. I'm getting ahead of myself. But I trust the people here still so much and input is sooooo appreciated.
Got caught eatin tacos, goddamngoddamn, Sarah.
bye guys this is my stop
Drunk as hell and your song comes on
This badger is like 5 “Don’t Stop Believing”s drunk
u kno??? 2014
Patricia Alvarado
I got drunk and fell asleep naked on my roof. Cross that off the bucket list.
Who is responsible for this
this works way 2 well tbh
remember this
will no this is litera lly the musical equivalent of a cold shower, no one remember this
I actually laughed until I cried.
Morris Graves (American, 1910-2001), Winter Bouquet, 1977. Tempera on paper, 23 x 29 3/4 in.
Yep.
~Philip Guston~ Untitled (1969)
Oh, good lord, CHILL OUT, DUDE.
Everything in my life is right now is sad and frustrating and I feel very, very alone. The existential aloneness I've experienced in the past month or so is wholly unfamiliar and I only hope it's making me a better, stronger, more resilient person. I'm not so sure though.
