"An intelligent, beautiful woman with a dirty mind that makes you laugh non-stop should be treasured."
"Headphones on. World off."
How to be unforgettable: A gentleman’s guide.
Care about everything, especially things like animal cruelty and environmental sustainability. Prove it. Grow your hair long enough to run your fingers through, and then do it at every opportunity. Complete the New York Times crossword puzzle in one sitting. In pen. Every day. Know your way around a wine list. DVR old movies and AC360. Read the classics. Don’t take yourself seriously. Take your woman seriously. Understand the importance of thread count. Call your mother. Smell good, even when you sweat. Wear chucks. Have biceps. Own vinyl. Remember small things. Be the little spoon. Brush her hair. Don’t smoke, but if you do, look hot as fuck doing it. Tell her you love her and laugh when she says thank you. Wait until she loves you back, because there’s a good chance that she will.
She was less interested in the things he wrote than that he wrote them at all, huddled over his laptop and reeking of cigarettes. She wondered if he sat down at his little desk the way one would go to his job each morning, freshly showered with coffee in hand, or if he wrote by lamplight in the dead of night, sipping bourbon, pacing the floors and mumbling profanities under his breath when things just wouldn’t come together.
She was less interested in his passion than that he was passionate at all, intrigued by the concept that one could be so completely dedicated to and utterly consumed by anything other than another human being, which is the only kind of passion she’d ever known.
She wished that she could want something that much. She wondered if she ever would.
Notes from the Vineyard II.
You are awakened by the smell of bread and bacon and the ruckus of wind chimes caught in an stiff ocean breeze. You have nowhere to be but to be, a leisurely journey traveled sans luggage and at a snail’s pace, with which, immersed in feathers and goose down, you’ve managed to sync your own quite successfully.
Notes from the Vineyard.
Here, the sea and the shore engage in a perpetual series of good natured battles, as frigid surf taunts craggy rock for supremacy. And as nature would have it, each battle will invariably end in a draw, with a foamy kiss imparted from sea to stone.
Imagine all the people living life in peace.
"Why do I train? Because muscles are strength and earning them teaches us that we can create our own strength."
Cameron Díaz, The Body Book: The Law of Hunger, the Science of Strength, and Other Ways to Love Your Amazing Body
currently reading and loving.
He said if that if he heard “All of Me” one more time he would take a blunt instrument to every radio within a five mile radius. She admitted sheepishly that despite her hipster-esque taste in music, she actually really liked the song and might even love it. Yes, she said, after some consideration, she definitely does love it. He told her he thought he could live with this anomaly if he had to, as long as she promised to refrain from singing it in the shower, or god forbid, choosing it as their wedding song. She agreed to neither, fully aware that no might be the closest to a yes he’ll ever get.
"In case you ever foolishly forget; I am never not thinking of you."
I don’t write about the weather.
I don’t write about the weather, but if I did, I’d write about how the rain came down in sheets and for what seemed like a millennium, I was driving blind. I don’t write about the weather, but if I did, I would write about how, for one heart stopping instant, my life really did flash before my eyes, they way that people say it does when one thinks the end is near. I don’t write about the weather, but I do write about love, and I want you to know that in that flash, I saw you.
"All art is erotic."
Happy birthday, o’ brilliant one.
First non beach weather Sunday all summer. Nerding it up with a solo trip to the Met for the Garry Winogrand exhibit. Been really looking forward to it.