My Shitty Writing Blog

the typical stereotypical writing blog. enjoy your suffering

[michellepsychologist]

Keanu Reeves appreciation post ♥️

[dancing-coyote]

I love this man. He’s a wonderful example of a decent, moral wealthy person.

[ironbite4]

…….WHY DOES HE DO THIS!?  MY GOD THIS MAN IS JUST FUCKING PERFECT!

[lkeke35]

I remember in one interview he said he had more money than he could ever spend in a single lifetime, so he just gives the money away. Outside of random strangers, he also gives most of it to various charities, and only grants himself a small stipend to live on, pay rent, buy food, etc.

[crystallinemuun]

Socialist king

[wannabewriterbutprobablynot]

there's so many words out there and i can't even string together a comprehensive...string? ugh! to, like, explain how i feel and stuff.

quotes from a book i'll never write pt. 5

[wannabewriterbutprobablynot]

He believed everything I said, no matter what. I could have told him oregano was crystal meth and he would have believed me. I don't know who would be dumb enough to think crystal meth was an herb, but..."

quotes from a book i'll never wrote pt. 4

[wannabewriterbutprobablynot]

You know, carpe diam! Sneeze today or something like that.

quotes from a book i'll never wrote pt. 3

[wannabewriterbutprobablynot]

person A doing some risky shit™️ and person B comes up like oh hey haha what's going on and they see A and their face just goes slack and they drop what they're carrying and lunge towards A to protect them but people are holding B back from getting to A because danger and B is just sobbing and screaming for A not to do it now THAT is the shit

[wannabewriterbutprobablynot]

i delayed doing the things i loved. i thought, maybe, just maybe, if i delay it enough, it will be better than it would have been.

excerpt from a book i'll never write pt. 2

[wannabewriterbutprobablynot]

I could say the night felt magical, but that would be embellishment. That would be romanticization. What it actually felt like was life. We weren't thinking of what would happen next. No one talked about the way the summer was supposed to unfold or the placed we'd find ourselves in the fall. It was as if we had made a pact to be in the moment, or like being in the moment was the only way to be.

We Are Okay by Nina LaCour (pg. 127-128)

[wannabewriterbutprobablynot]

We both laugh and run, and the moment is so thick around me that I feel like dropping into it to let it carry me.  I love the laughter of this night. Our footsteps run, and I don't want them to end. I want to run and laugh and feel like this forever. I want to avoid any awkward moment when the realness of reality sticks its fork into our flesh, leaving us standing there, together. I want to stay here, in this moment, and never go to other places, where we don't know what to say or what to do. For now, just let us run. We run straight through the laughter of the night.

I Am the Messenger by Markus Zusak (pg. 155)

[wannabewriterbutprobablynot]

I laugh and the stars watch. It's good to be alive.

I Am the Messenger by Markus Zusak (pg 165)

[wannabewriterbutprobablynot]

And in that moment, I swear we were infinite.

The Perks of Being a Wallflower by Stephen Chbosky (pg. 39)

[wannabewriterbutprobablynot]

The Man with the Bent Violin Bridge

On July 14, 2018, I was in downtown Knoxville. It was beautiful. There were shops and stores and there was a big Shakespearean theatre right in the middle so you could hear his words flow over you like softened honey. 

I heard a scratchy wonder of a sound coming from the left. My eyes landed on an elderly man playing a snow white violin. It was dancing music. Something I would have expected to hear in old movies when the protagonists meet dancing to a fast-paced song during a festival or wedding. I got closer and saw that his violin was worse than anticipated. he was playing beautiful music, but I could tell the hairs on his bow needed to be replaced. He needed new strings. His bow needed rosin. He had tape on his violin to keep it together. The bridge was bent. 

I stood there, listening for maybe a minute. He noticed me, called me over, and told me he was going to teach me how to play. I told him I already knew how to play and he told me to play. I played the only thing I could think of, but I don’t know the title. He danced around clapping and shouting. I could tell he was Italian. He had such a joyous outlook on life. For that moment, for that tiny, minuscule moment, I shared that vision; I could hardly play the instrument. It had a certain finesse to it to get clean sound. I was afraid of snapping the bridge it was bent so hard. He didn’t care. He danced and clapped and made all worries go away. No one danced with him. Only my mind and fingers.

I don’t know his name. I don’t know why he was there. I don’t know if he had a family or if he was homeless and the violin was all he had. I don’t even know if he is still alive.

I threw $6 in his case. I wish I threw more. 

He is a beautiful man who lives life to the fullest.

That is the most beautiful thing I saw.

[wannabewriterbutprobablynot]

we laughed. and for one moment, for one tiny sliver of the world's time, nothing but us mattered

excerpt from a book i’ll never write pt 1