She was terrified of everything, and terrified to show it.

David Foster Wallace, Brief Interviews  (via aninsufferableknowitall)

(Source: gilliancharlotte, via elizabethqlemonade)


This is why fiction is an art and life is not—how much more affecting is the lie than the truth.


Freedom of speech is a constitutional right; exemption from the social consequences of being a bigot is not.

(Source: america-wakiewakie, via emir-dynamite)

What if you wake up some day, and you’re 65, or 75, and you never got your memoir or novel written; or you didn’t go swimming in warm pools and oceans all those years because your thighs were jiggly and you had a nice big comfortable tummy; or you were just so strung out on perfectionism and people-pleasing that you forgot to have a big juicy creative life, of imagination and radical silliness and staring off into space like when you were a kid? It’s going to break your heart. Don’t let this happen.

Anne Lamott 

I love her.

(via washingandbleach)

(Source: jerfreyy, via allblackbirdsdofly)


I just started watching through the x-files on netfilx while I’m working and it was the best decision. 

(Source: salandered, via alexanderhamiltonisthebottom)

“The Fault in Our Stars” is at its core a love story between two teenagers. My sister never got to have a relationship like that. She got to experience just a few weeks of being 16. Witnessing a life and a romance she could have had made me feel unbearably sad and yet, oddly, uplifted. It’s as if, through Hazel, my sister is able to continue having new experiences. As if she got a sequel.

Evangeline Earl, Esther’s older sister, in her beautiful op-ed in the Washington Post (via tswgobook)

(via elysemarshall)

It all comes back. Perhaps it is difficult to see the value in having one’s self back in that kind of mood, but I do see it; I think we are well advised to keep on nodding terms with the people we used to be, whether we find them attractive company or not. Otherwise they turn up unannounced and surprise us, come hammering on the mind’s door at 4 a.m. of a bad night and demand to know who deserted them, who betrayed them, who is going to make amends. We forget all too soon the things we thought we could never forget. We forget the loves and the betrayals alike, forget what we whispered and what we screamed, forget who we were. I have already lost touch with a couple of people I used to be; one of them, a seventeen-year-old, presents little threat, although it would be of some interest to me to know again what it feels like to sit on a river levee drinking vodka-and-orange-juice and listening to Les Paul and Mary Ford and their echoes sing “How High the Moon” on the car radio. (You see I still have the scenes, but I no longer perceive myself among those present, no longer could even improvise the dialogue.) The other one, a twenty-three-year-old, bothers me more. She was always a good deal of trouble, and I suspect she will reappear when I least want to see her, skirts too long, shy to the point of aggravation, always the injured party, full of recriminations and little hurts and stories I do not want to hear again, at once saddening me and angering me with her vulnerability and ignorance, an apparition all the more insistent for being so long banished.

Joan Didion, from “On Keeping a Notebook” (via commovente)

(via sfenhry)

"Community has pulled off one the most patient easter egg: in one episode of each of the first three seasons, the word "Beetlejuice" was used off-handedly in a joke. If you’ve seen the movie Beetlejuice, the titular mischievous ghost would appear in the world of the living if anyone said his name three times. So, sure enough, on the third mention by a Community character, this guy appears in the background for exactly two seconds. They patiently waited three years to reach that punchline."

(Source: depression-and-movies, via alexanderhamiltonisthebottom)

I have one insurmountably easy task to complete tomorrow

busy day