On occasion.

On occasion.

(Source: sirneave, via mrjasmine)

Foster the People – Fire Escape (82 plays)

(Source: supersatellite)

nightblue-fruit said: Do you believe that you should love less than you are loved?

Wouldn’t it be nice if one could mete out love in measured amounts? Less to lose that way, yeah? It really doesn’t matter what I believe, despite my mother’s sage advice. The heart wants what the heart wants. I’ve never had much say in the matter.

A mother’s advice.

Love less than you are loved.

The fact that beauty pageants still exist shocks and appalls me.

Ok, cupid.

I met someone.

Oh god, how I dread hearing those three words again.

My mother is apparently hell bent on not being single, and since, I have been informed, there are practically zero unattached late fifty-early-sixty-ish men walking around waiting for her to snatch them up, she has employed the internet to remedy the situation.


Her first foray into the world of internet dating landed her on Christianmingle.com. There, she reasoned, she would be more likely to meet a good man, then say, a serial killer. She actually did meet a few ‘good’ men (read: kinda weird), and as far as I know, no murderers. But since my mother sits squarely midpoint on the Christianity meter (half way between the Bible Thumpers and the Only on Christmas and Easter crew), a steady diet of spiritual retreats, New Testament discussion meetups and sixty year old virgins, in the end held as much appeal as ‘repeated visits to the oral surgeon’ (her words not mine).

Then, while mired in a deep depression at the prospect of spending her golden years alone, a coworker told her about ‘Our Time’, a dating site just for seniors (and almost seniors, she feels the need to point out). My mother is a beautiful woman, and without the wrath of God damning them to hell for salacious thoughts, the hot to trot old men on this site flocked to her like bees to honey. 

Initially mom was a woman on a mission, sometimes, I kid you not, even doing two-a-days. Then, she met someone. An architect and city planner, who, she jokes, at ten feet and a squint might favor George Clooney on a good day. He ticks all her boxes, she exclaims excitedly: intelligent, funny, romantic, well read, loves music, no paunch. And holy shit, last night he spent the night (hands over ears, lalalalala).

And you know I don’t give it away to just anyone.

Ugh mom, really?

Now, I want to see my mother happy, more than anything. I do. But until proven otherwise, I am suspect of anyone who enters her life. She trusted a man once and still bears the scars. 

You better treat her right, Mr. Clooney Wannabe. Be good and be kind. Or I promise you, I will hunt you down and I will yank every salted and peppered hair out of your damned head. 

Neutral Milk Hotel – Engine (313 plays)

Jeff Magnum, I love you.

(Source: bryan--7k)

Real life.

Where names are not preceded by @ signs, and showing emotion goes deeper than choosing a yellow face with a corresponding expression, and pressing ‘send’.

Where conversations last longer than 140 characters, and people touch each other with hands and mouths and skin, instead of typewritten words proclaiming how much they wish they could. Where laughter has a sound.

Real life. Unedited. Unfiltered.

I hope to meet you there someday.

Honestly, you don’t have to take me anywhere. You don’t have to buy me anything. You don’t have to perform any of those cliche’d rituals that people think are required of them when they are dating someone. You just have to see me. Take the time. Care enough to peel back my layers and scale my walls. That’s all I really want. I can buy my own flowers, I’m perfectly okay with that. Promise.

The numbers are in.

Thank you Nikki, Iggy and JLo for bringing back the booty. Sign ups for my Booty Camp classes have tripled since July!


James Brown delivers powerful speech on domestic violence

"I challenge the NFL community, and all men, to seriously confront the problem of domestic violence, especially coming on the heels of the murder-suicide of Kansas City Chiefs football player Jovan Belcher and his girlfriend Kasandra Perkins .Yet here we are again, dealing with the same issue of violence against women. Now let’s be clear, this problem is bigger than football. There has been, appropriately so, intense and widespread outrage following the release of a video showing what happened inside the elevator at the casino. But wouldn’t it be productive if this collective outrage, as my colleagues have said, could be channeled to truly hear and address the long-suffering cries for help by so many women, and as they said, do something about it? Like an ongoing comprehensive education of men about what healthy, respectful manhood is all about.  And it starts with how we view women. Our language is important. For instance, when someone says ‘you throw the ball like a girl’ or ‘you’re a little sissy’, it reflects an attitude that devalues women. And attitudes will eventually manifest in some fashion.  Women have been at the forefront of the domestic violence awareness and prevention arena, and whether Janay Rice considers herself a victim or not, millions of women in this country are. Consider this — according to domestic violence experts, more than three women per day lose their lives at the hands of their partners.  That means that since the night of February 15 in Atlantic City, more than 600 women have died. So this is yet another call to men, to stand up and take responsibility for their thoughts, their words, their deeds, and as Deion says, to give help or to get help. Because our silence is deafening, and deadly.”

Damage control or a sincere call for change? The cynic in me leans toward the former. The woman in me hopes against hope that the cynic is wrong. 

Post script.

Mostly I remember 
the quiet. For days,
weeks after.

There was a wedding 
on Saturday. No one 

Never forget.

I think people 
spend too much time 
staring into 
computer screens 
and not enough 
time drinking wine 
and tongue kissing
and slow dancing 
under mirror balls.

(Source: shadow-writer)

Autumn Is Tapping on the Window


Cold fingers dance across my shirt collar, the strands of my hair grown long from their last cropping. Those fingers, they find the place between skin and cloth, slip their way down clavical and across sternum like a necklace of promises and all at once I want.

There are scarfs to be draped, and…

I want this here.