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My financial aid is late and I don’t know how the fuck I am about to pay my rent and I have no food at all and now I have to go deal with my horrible rich bitch of an ex-roommate who in our most recent conversation told me (I swear) “I think you should remind yourself that I am the daughter of millionaires.” I know my problems are relatively minor but oh god how am I going to restrain myself from spitting in this girl’s eye.
Put a body part in my ask and I will tell you something about it.
This seems like an interesting experiment.
Haha, sure, why not?
Oo. I’ve got stories, people.
SCARED BUT DOING IT ANYWAY.
Ooh, can we do this please?
(Source: alexandraerin)
My breakdown of Murakami themes.
I need music recommendations. Acoustic; pretty in a way that involves doing things that are surprising and not just putting together chords in a way that is mathematically guaranteed to be pretty; I really like string sections right now; swoony. There is just so much music that answers to that description and is serviceable, and then there are the occasional things that are just heartbreakingly good, and those are hard to find and I need you to help me. Ok. Thanks.
"I have tried hard—but life is difficult, and I am a very useless person. I can hardly be said to have an independent existence. I was just a screw or a cog in the great machine I called life, and when I dropped out of it I found I was of no use anywhere else. What can one do when one finds that one only fits into one hole? One must get back to it or be thrown out into the rubbish heap—and you don’t know what it’s like in the rubbish heap!"
All my life, I’ll never get over Lily Bart. (via michelledean)
-I wish I were musically talented so badly that sometimes watching people play music hurts, physically, in my skin, all over.
-I want a piano. Even though I am terrible at the piano and I know it would just frustrate me. I want one.
-I am writing a thing that starts as a barely-fictionalized account of a thing that happened to me and (I hope) will turn into something more interesting, but it is hard to move into the more interesting part, because the thing that actually happened is so deeply fascinating to me (because of narcissism) that I can’t tear myself away from writing and rewriting it.
-Also I am having trouble giving this one person a fictional-version name because he has actually the best real-life name I have ever heard.
-Writing is always painful, but sometimes it is less painful than not-writing.
-I write when not-writing gets agonizing, or when my friends get bored of hearing me analyze the ultimately-not-that-interesting things that have happened to me. Neither of those are good or respectable reasons.
I have gotten really really terrible at keeping up with new music. Is everyone else way ahead of me in developing a huge crush on Kimbra? Probably, right?
(Source: likeapairofbottlerockets, via heroicdestinysquad)
The totally bizarre portion of 2011 may have come to a decisive end, appropriately, on New Year’s Eve. Or possibly not.
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Anna Arkadyevna read and understood; but it was distasteful to her to read, that is, to follow the reflection of other people’s lives. She had too great a desire to live herself. If she read that the heroine of the novel was nursing a sick man, she longed to move with noiseless steps about the room of a sick man; if she read of a member of Parliament making a speech, she longed to be delivering the speech; if she read of how Lady Mary had ridden after the hounds, and had provoked her sister-in-law, and had surprised everyone by her boldness, she too wished to be doing the same. But there was no chance of doing anything; and twisting the smooth paper-knife in her little hands, she forced herself to read.
The hero of the novel was already almost reaching his English happiness, a baronetcy and an estate, and Anna was feeling a desire to go with him to the estate, when she suddenly felt that he ought to feel ashamed, and that she was ashamed of the same thing. But what had he to be ashamed of?
"Anna Karenina, obvs. 2011 might be remembered as the year when so many books caught me at just the right time. There was Infinite Jest this summer when the world looked like an interlocking system of black miracles, and a whole string of Jennifer Egan novels this past month when I was trying to solve the mystery of really, really, really wanting something to the point where you just want to keep wanting it, and now this—which is quite a disorienting thing to read when your brain insists on intercutting it with, actually, never mind.
