can we start a club for teenagers who were constantly complimented on their intelligence when they were younger and are now having trouble coping with the realization that they’re actually of average intellect at best
can this club have a support person that helps us to study because we didn’t need to before so we don’t know how to now
A reminder for today that supporting the idea that Oxford or Sir Francis Bacon or whoever wrote Shakespeare’s works is inherently classist and undermines the very essence of what makes Shakespeare great: the universality of his writing.
Shakespeare didn’t write to impress…
it’s called fashion look it up
i’m not a traditional witch
Riffs from every song off of Arctic Monkeys’ AM album all played in one go on an acoustic guitar.
I took my girlfriend to an improv show the other night and during intermission we were passionately arguing over whether half a 5 Hour Energy shot would give you 2.5 hours of energy or 5 hours of half-assed energy so we turned around to ask the opinions of the three people behind us and one of them said “Are all your arguments like this because we heard you in the lobby earlier fighting over the right way to pronounce ‘egg’?”
quick moment of gratitude for health, happiness, well being, opportunity, friends, family, love, food, education, clothing, financial stability, freedom, knowledge, and all endless amount of good things that god/the universe felt compelled for some reason to bestow upon me. i’m trying to remind myself often of how fucking lucky i am and how i need to give it back/pay it forward/submit good cosmic energy into the ether.
It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s the sound I heard when I was 9 and my father slammed the front door so hard behind him I swear to god it shook the whole house. For the next 3 years I watched my mother break her teeth on vodka bottles. I think she stopped breathing when he left. I think part of her died. I think he took her heart with him when he walked out. Her chest is empty, just a shattered mess or cracked ribs and depression pills.
It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s all the blood in the sink. It’s the night that I spent 12 hours in the emergency room waiting to see if my sister was going to be okay, after the boy she loved, told her he didn’t love her anymore. It’s the crying, and the fluorescent lights, and white sneakers and pale faces and shaky breaths and blood. So much blood.
It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s the time that I had to stay up for two days straight with my best friend while she cried and shrieked and threw up on my bedroom floor because her boyfriend fucked his ex. I swear to god she still has tear streaks stained onto her cheeks. I think when you love someone, it never really goes away.
It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s the six weeks we had a substitute in English because our teacher was getting divorced and couldn’t handle getting out of bed. When she came she back was smiling. But her hands shook so hard when she held her coffee, you could see that something was broken inside. And sometimes when things break, you can’t fix them. Nothing ever goes back to how it was. I got an A in English that year. I think her head was always spinning too hard to read any essays.
It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s that I do.