If white cotton tees and ripped jeans are not your thing, I’m pretty sure you’d find me repulsive.

Drawing lines.

We play connect the dots, 
drawing lines between

the freckles on our skin 
the questions and the answers 
this day and the next,

with the hope that 
our fingers don’t break
before we make
something beautiful.

(Source: shadow-writer)

"I’m not going to be the girl you marry, but I’ll be the girl you’ll be thinking of 20 years from now while you engage in polite sex with your boring wife who fakes her orgasm to make you feel better about your receding hairline."

e.b.

(Source: angelicpanic, via imanamericanbrunette)

Drawing lines.

We play connect the dots, 
drawing lines between

the freckles on our skin 
the questions and the answers 
this day and the next,

with the hope that 
our fingers don’t break
before we make
something beautiful.

"Of all man’s instruments, the most wondrous, no doubt, is the book. The other instruments are extensions of his body. The microscope, the telescope, are extensions of his sight; the telephone is the extension of his voice; then we have the plow and the sword, extensions of the arm. But the book is something else altogether: the book is an extension of memory and imagination."

Jorge Luis Borges 

Precisely.

(Source: observando)

God, I love a man with a big

vocabulary.

Casual sex.

There was a curiosity in the way he touched me, almost as if he had never touched a woman before. He slid the pad of his index finger across my lips and whispered ‘soft’ to himself, as if the pronunciation of the word and its definition were one and the same. He pushed my hair off my neck in slow motion and ran the same finger from earlobe to collarbone, until finally his hand covered the goosebumped flesh above my heart. I grabbed his wrist before my palpitations gave me away and gently kissed that which had been exploring me. I don’t do casual sex, was what I tried to communicate by the gesture. He sat back and looked at me quizzically. For a moment, I had almost forgotten that I wasn’t in love with him.

I’ve been trying for literally ever to binge watch classic-alice from episode one but the universe is conspiring against it apparently.

I am obsessed with lightplay on naked bodies.

(Source: idterab, via 2cheamore)

Frozen.

I asked my eight year old niece if she had a boyfriend.

Yup! she said cheerily while busying herself with her new Frozen playhouse. His name is Jake.

Ohh, I like that name. Is he nice?

After some consideration she answered, Uhhhh, I guess he’s okay.

I plopped down next to her and picked up an abandoned Anna doll. Anna, the poor red haired child. Why does Elsa get all the love, I wondered.

What do you mean you guess he’s okay? I prodded gently. He’s your boyfriend isn’t he? What do you like about him?

Welllll…I guess I like that he likes me… and besides, I just wanted a boyfriend, she concluded with a deep sighside-eyeing me with a look that said, I’ve had about enough of this interrogation, thank you very much.

If only she knew the profundity of her response. If only she knew that twenty years later, she might still be calling someone her boyfriend for all the wrong reasons. If only she might grow up to be a living, breathing Elsa, liberating herself from her fears rather than wallowing in her weaknesses.

If only plastic castles could be real.

"But my body was like a harp and her words and gestures were like fingers running upon the wires."

James Joyce, Araby (via lora-mathis)

Daniela Andrade – Crazy [Cover] (4,045 plays)

Daniela Andrade can do no wrong.

(Source: shelleywangbang, via sonofthelandlockedmariner)

I want to know
more about you
than you could ever tell.

Some questions can
only be answered
with hips and fingertips.

"I think about you. But I don’t say it anymore."

Marguerite Duras, from Hiroshima, Mon Amour

(Source: violentwavesofemotion, via beinah)

I’m moving out of this beach house and it’s like someone threw my emotions into a blender and pressed purée.

There is the sadness of saying goodbye. The familiar dread of packing up faded swimsuits and sandy bedding and well worn Rainbows.  The usual trepidation of bungy-ing my boards to the roof and driving in the slow lane all the way up the parkway, for fear I might potentially take out the driver behind me with my beloved polyurethane projectiles.

Along with the melancholy of leaving, though, is the satisfaction of having been here, for one of the best summers of my life. This is the summer I mastered the handstand pose at sunrise, bought myself a paddleboard, and learned to make three different kinds of martinis. It is the summer I honed my surfing skills to a level on par with folks I could only admire from the shore a mere few years ago. This is the summer I can finally say that I have grown to love the bawdy, brown skinned, bleached blonde beach bums who have been my housemates for three seasons now. They are not merely sharing the rent anymore, they have become my summer family. 

Most importantly, this is the summer where nothing else in my life had to suffer because of an abundance of time spent on the shore. Not my work, not my relationship, not my responsibilities. I have finally learned to balance life at the ocean that nurtures me with life in a city that challenges and excites me.

This is the summer I figured it all out.

Come at me September. I’m ready.