that bitter literature aftertaste
INFP. Accordionista. Pedestrian. English major. Fraudulent designer. Minneapolis.
Jul 24th
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(brushes crumbs off bed) yea baby hop on in


“My poetry has passed through the same stages as my life.” —Pablo Neruda, born July 12th in 1904.


Spooked ya

what is underneath the careful facade


“Maybe it’s the effect of language evolution or intelligence inflation, but it can’t be denied that genius no longer packs the awe-inspiring punch it once did.”

Sadie Stein on the upper reaches of the IQ scale.


If I ever get pregnant I think this is how I will break the news

I had a dream that I was someone driving with a few other people through these old Midwestern towns where fictional me’s parents had lived once. We stopped and ate lunch at a diner and it was still summer, so all the lights were turned off and there was just the glare of really bright sun coming in from the street and the parked cars.

Something changed within a period of time I don’t remember, and after that I remember being a younger girl of about 10, and there was another girl with me and we were running from someone and hiding in people’s back yards, literally fearing for our lives. We ran into the basement of this guy’s house and hid behind this curtain, and there was a trash bag next to us that we kept looking at but didn’t know what was in it. And that’s all I remember.


*rides off into the sunset on your dad*