I don’t even call my daddy daddy.

Conundrum.

Two cats laze on adjacent windowsills, while the sun plays peekaboo. His bedroom faces a courtyard, and mornings here are atypically quiet for midtown. I relish it, lulled in and out of sleep by the rhythm of his breathing and the rise and fall of his chest against my back. I can see my watch on the nightstand and squeeze my eyes shut to stop time, if only for a moment. 

There are never enough moments with him, never enough mornings like this. Life happens, he says. But really, what is life if not right here, right now? What do either of us have to do, where does either of us have to be, that matters more than this? 

Reluctantly, I fish his hand out from under the covers and around my waist and throw my legs over the side of the bed. He stirs, the cats jump from their perch, and the sun escapes the clouds to light the room. 

Where ‘ya going, babe? he mumbles, reaching out for me.

I can only kiss him softly and sigh. Some questions have no answers.

"There is nothing gutsier to me than a person announcing that their story is one that deserves to be told, especially if that person is a woman."

Lena Dunham/ Not That Kind of Girl

Today’s agenda: Retail therapy.

  1. Buy “Not That Kind of Girl”.
  2. Buy Stuart Weitzman 50/50’s in cola and a new pair of Vans.
  3. Find a nude lipstick that doesn’t make me look like a cadaver.
  4. Pick up everything fresh and beautiful at the Green Grocer
  5. and enough fresh flowers to fill every vase in the house.

    Have a great day!
Lightplay.

Lightplay.

(Source: 708magazine, via kaamasutra)

I don’t want your pretty.
I want your breakouts,
your breakdowns,
your ugly cries and
your puffy eyes.

I don’t want your infallible.
I want your tentative,
your second guesses,
your unsure and
your insecure.

I don’t want the best of you.
I want your your missteps,
your fuck ups,
your bad days and
your sleepless nights.

I don’t want your perfect.
I want your human.

And you can have mine.

It’s rare when my activity graph flatlines, but I assure you, I’m not dead.

"Tampon commercial, detergent commercial, maxi pad commercial, windex commercial - you’d think all women do is clean and bleed."

Gillian Flynn, Gone Girl 

(Source: go-book-yourself)

Perk Up: Facebook and Apple Now Pay for Women to Freeze Eggs - NBC News

Epic. 

I  stood 
at the side of his bed 
and watched him sleep.

I stood and watched 
ribbons of his cum 
slide down the soft skin 
of my inner thighs. 

I stood silent and still, 
as if stillness could
give one the power 
to preserve a moment, 
before the moment 
becomes a memory.

He stirred. I breathed.
And what we had found
became what we lost

in an instant.

He does this sweet, sleepy half smile thing in the morning before he even opens his eyes, after just a kiss or a touch or a word from me, and this morning I thought, I’m not going to forget about this, I’m going to write about it, immortalize it the way all things perfect and beautiful should be immortalized, so that they can last forever.

Unfriending and unfollowing is at least a start, right?

(Source: eros-addict, via sojurner)

"When I’m running I don’t have to talk to anybody and don’t have to listen to anybody. This is a part of my day I can’t do without."

 Haruki Murakami, What I Talk About When I Talk About Running

(Source: thewastelands)

Stop writing
about the rain.

Get wet.