A Tumblr Is A Female Version Of A Hustler
Of a hustler. Of a-Of a hustler.
Posts tagged How I live my life.
Leaving my house this way to run errands? Leaving my house this way to run errands. And yes, I have rollers in my hair. COME AT ME, CROWN HEIGHTS.
Things I Do Not Understand And Definitely Am Not Going To Talk About
- Managing expectations.
- Usually my own.
Why did I write it down? In order to remember, of course, but exactly what was it I wanted to remember? How much of it actually happened? Did any of it? Why do I keep a notebook at all? It is easy to deceive oneself on all those scores. The impulse to write things down is a peculiarly compulsive one, inexplicable to those who do not share it, useful only accidentally, only secondarily, in the way that any compulsion tries to justify itself. I suppose that it begins or does not begin in the cradle. Although I have felt compelled to write things down since I was five years old, I doubt that my daughter ever will, for she is a singularly blessed and accepting child, delighted with life exactly as life presents itself to her, unafraid to go to sleep and unafraid to wake up. Keepers of private notebooks are a different breed altogether, lonely and resistant rearrangers of things, anxious malcontents, children afflicted apparently at birth with some presentiment of loss.
Joan Didion, from “On Keeping a Notebook”, in “Slouching Towards Bethlehem: Essays” (via mitochondria)
Professed journal-keeper.
(via glamourousslop)
AM
- Man collecting cans: Good morning.
- Me: Good morning!
- Him: (surprised I responded) Have a nice day!
- Me: You too!
- Him: (ecstatic at this point) You look fantastic!
- Me: Thanks!
- Him: All right!
I’m drinking an old-fashioned, watching the 1974 “Great Gatsby,” and putting my hair in rollers.
Edit: also, wearing gaudy fake diamond earrings now.
I don’t watch this show but I say both of these things enough to reblog it.
(Source: raiseusfromperdition, via yoamymac)
Not that I am losing my grip: I am just tired of summer.
You reach for a shirt in a drawer and the day is wasted.
If only winter were here for snow to smother
all these streets, these humans; but first, the blasted
green. I would sleep in my clothes or just pluck a borrowed
book, while what’s left of the year’s slack rhythm,
like a dog abandoning its blind owner,
crosses the road at the usual zebra. Freedom
is when you forget the spelling of the tyrant’s name
and your mouth’s saliva is sweeter than Persian pie,
and though your brain is wrung tight as the horn of a ram
nothing drops from your pale-blue eye.
Joseph Brodsky, Untitled (via twelve-ish)
My response to humanity a lot of the time.
(Source: drunkbroadway, via yoamymac)
