“They lie about marijuana. Tell you pot-smoking makes you unmotivated. Lie! When you’re high, you can do everything you normally do, just as well. You just realize that it’s not worth the fucking effort. There is a difference.”—Bill Hicks
“we die containing a richness of lovers and tribes, tastes we have swallowed, bodies we have plunged into and swum up as if rivers of wisdom, characters we have climbed into as if trees, fears we have hidden in as if caves.
I wish for all this to be marked on my body when I am dead. I believe in such cartography – to be marked by nature, not just to label ourselves on a map like the names of rich men and women on buildings. we are
communal histories, communal books. we are not owned or monogamous in our taste or experience.
all I desired was to walk upon such an earth that had no maps.
“Everything is a self-portrait. A diary. Your whole drug history’s in a strand of your hair. Your fingernails. The forensic details. The lining of your stomach is a document. The calluses on your hand tell all your secrets. Your teeth give you away. Your accent. The wrinkles around your mouth and eyes. Everything you do shows your hand.”—Chuck Palahniuk (Diary) (via luxuriousvulgarity) (via mathewparkin) (via jeralyndwile) (via robot-heart) (via littlesparrow)
“then she learns on his neck and whispers low
“whither thou goest, I will go”
and they turn as one, they head for the plain;
no need for the whip, no need for the rein”—ballad of a runaway horse (via littlesparrow)
“Let us toast to animal pleasures, to escapism, to rain on the roof and instant coffee, to un-employment insurance and library cards, to absinthe and good-hearted landlords, to music and warm bodies and contraceptives … and to the ‘good life’, whatever it is and where it happens to be.”—
I think what I really learned from years of being slutty is that kissing is the best part.
Unless you’re getting into a relationship, there’s this inevitable sadness to all sexual encounters — even good sexual encounters, even the best sex — because it means the end of it all. The end of the flirtation, the moment of promise, the anticipation, and — in some cases, at least — the end of your acquaintance with that person. Suddenly this person, so full of promise, is just another name on your list of people you’ve fucked; another entry to the database of places you’ve been.
Kissing, on the other hand, extends the moment of anticipation, heightens the desire, keeps you wondering and guessing what, exactly, that moment of climax would be like. Kissing is the question, and fucking is the answer — and the answer is never as good as you hoped.
What I’m really trying to say, I guess, is that I long ago lost the desire to fuck every hot stranger who passes by, but I still really want to make out with people.
“while i’ve been going on
the blood from my wrist
has travelled to my heart
and my fingers touch
this soft blue paper notebook
control a pencil that shifts up and sideways
mapping my thinking going its own way”—the collected works of billy the kid (via littlesparrow)
“It’s a wonder I’m even alive. Sometimes I think that. I think that I can’t believe I haven’t killed myself. But there’s something in me that just keeps going on. I think it has something to do with tomorrow, that there is always one, and that everything can change when it comes.”—Running With Scissors, Augusten Burroughs (via allemmaj)
We live in a modern society. Husbands and wives don’t grow on trees, like in the old days. So where does one find love? When you’re sixteen it’s easy, like being unleashed with a credit card in a department store of kisses. There’s the first kiss. The sloppy kiss. The peck. The sympathy kiss. The backseat smooch. The we shouldn’t be doing this kiss. The but your lips taste so good kiss. The bury me in an avalanche of tingles kiss. The I wish you’d quit smoking kiss. The I accept your apology, but you make me really mad sometimes kiss. The I know your tongue like the back of my hand kiss. As you get older, kisses become scarce. You’ll be driving home and see a damaged kiss on the side of the road, with its purple thumb out. If you were younger, you’d pull over, slide open the mouth’s red door just to see how it fits. Oh where does one find love? If you rub two glances, you get a smile. Rub two smiles, you get a warm feeling. Rub two warm feelings and presto-you have a kiss. Now what? Don’t invite the kiss over and answer the door in your underwear. It’ll get suspicious and stare at your toes. Don’t water the kiss with whiskey. It’ll turn bright pink and explode into a thousand luscious splinters, but in the morning it’ll be ashamed and sneak out of your body without saying good-bye, and you’ll remember that kiss forever by all the little cuts it left on the inside of your mouth. You must nurture the kiss. Turn out the lights. Notice how it illuminates the room. Hold it to your chest and wonder if the sand inside hourglasses comes from a special beach. Place it on the tongue’s pillow, then look up the first recorded kiss in an encyclopedia: beneath a Babylonian olive tree in 1200 B.C. But one kiss levitates above all the others. The intersection of function and desire. The I do kiss. The I’ll love you through a brick wall kiss. Even when I’m dead, I’ll swim through the Earth, like a mermaid of the soil, just to be next to your bones.
“don’t wanna meet your kin
select you or dissect you
or inspect you
or reject you
all I really wanna do is
be friends with you”—can’t stop listenin to you bobby. I love how he sounds like he’s laughing at himself all the way through this. (via littlesparrow)