i’m very expressive.
i deserve to feel pretty.
i kissed the blarney stone.
i am strong. i am brave.
im a good friend. I’m a good sister. I’m a good wife. i am a good in-law. I’m a good daughter. i am a good niece. I’m a good beagle mother. i am a good granddaughter.
i work hard for it, honey.
im superfly TNT motherfucker.
im a pilot of the airwaves.
im a better third baseman that brooks robinson.
I B-E-A-G-G-R-E-S-S-I-V-E.
i have exceptionally beautiful feet, eyes, ears, hips, hair, teeth, breasts. and shoulders. and fingernails. in a different pen, she added, and eyelashes and eyebrows, plus in yet another pen, and nose. and chin.
Tag: inspirational
I get sentimental over the music of the '90s. Deplorable, really. But I love it all. As far as I'm concerned, the '90s was the best era for music ever, even the stuff that I loathed at the time, even the stuff that gave me stomach cramps. Every note from those years is charged with life for me now. For instance, I hated Pearl Jam at the time. I thought they were pompous blowhards. Now, whenever a Pearl Jam song comes on the car radio, I find myself pounding my fist on the dashboard, screaming "Pearl JAM! Pearl JAM! Now this is rock and roll!
Rob SheffieldSome of us are born Gladys Knights, and some of us are born Pips.
Rob SheffieldFalling in love with Renée was not the kind of thing you walk away from in one piece. I had no chance. She put a hitch in my git-along. She would
wake up in the middle of the night and say things like “What if Bad Bad Leroy Brown was a girl?” or “Why don’t they have commercials for salt like
they do for milk?” Then she would fall back to sleep, while I would lie awake and give thanks for this alien creature beside whom I rested.
Neither of us ever threw anything away. We made
a lot of mix tapes while we were together. Tapes for making out, tapes for dancing, tapes for falling asleep. Tapes for doing the dishes, for walking
the dog. I kept them all. I have them piled up on my bookshelves, spilling out of my kitchen cabinets, scattered all over the bedroom floor. I don’t
even have pots or pans in my kitchen, just that old boom-box on the counter, next to the sink. So many tapes.
The country singers understand. It’s always that one song that gets you. You can hide, but the song comes to find you. Country singers are always
twanging about that number on the jukebox they can’t stand to hear you play, the one with the memories.
What is love? Great minds have been grappling with this
question through the ages, and in the modern era, they have
come up with many different answers. According to the Western
philosopher Pat Benatar, love is a battlefield. Her paisan Frank
Sinatra would add the corollary that love is a tender trap. The
stoner kids who spent the summer of 1978 looking cool on the
hoods of their Trans Ams in the Pierce Elementary School
parking lot used to scare us little kids by blasting the Sweet hit
“Love Is Like Oxygen”—you get too much, you get too high,
not enough and you’re gonna die. Love hurts. Love stinks. Love
bites, love bleeds, love is the drug. The troubadours of our times
all agree: They want to know what love is, and they want you to
show them.
But the answer is simple. Love is a mix tape.
The radio tape puts you right back in the original time and place when you first heard the songs. You are
there, my friend.
Before I met Maria, I was your basic craven hermit. I spent most of my time in my room, in love with my walls, hiding out from the world with my
fanzines and my records. I thought I was happier that way. I had developed these monastic habits to protect myself from something, probably, but
whatever it was, the monastic habits had turned into the bigger problem. In my headphones, I led a life of romance and incident and intrigue, none
of which had anything to do with the world outside my Walkman. I was an English major, obsessed with Oscar Wilde and Walter Pater and Algernon
Swinburne, thrilling to the exploits of my decadent aesthete poet idols, even though my only experience with decadence was reading about it.
I don’t know what your type is. I don’t know what your deal is. I don’t even know if you have a boyfriend. I know I like you and I want to be in your
life, that’s it, and if you have any room for a boyfriend, I would like to be your boyfriend, and if you don’t have any room, I would like to be your friend.
Any room you have for me in your life is great. If you would like me to start out in one room and move to another, I could do that.
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