i love when dogs sigh. its like, hey bud, long day at the office?

Love Was You


Love was you
and love was me
a costly game
we thought was free
we learned
the truth eventually

Love was you
and always you
and everything
we never knew
and all the dreams
that won’t come true

Love was you
when you were there
then love became
a vacant  stare
and we both traded
I don’t care

Love was you
and only you
yet sometimes love
is painful too
now love lives on
but there’s no you

“Tell me what happens the first time you see a woman naked.”

“The first time you see a woman naked will not be like you imagined. There will be no love, no trust, no intimacy. You won’t even be in the same room as her.

You won’t get to smile as she undresses you and you undress her. You won’t get to calm her nerves with nerves of your own. You won’t get to kiss her, feeling her lips and the edge of her tongue. You won’t get to brush your fingers over the lace of her bra or count her ribs or feel her heartbeat.

The first time you see a woman naked you will be sitting in front of a computer screen watching someone play at intimacy and perform at sex. She will contort her body to please everyone in the room but her. You will watch this woman who is not a woman, pixelated and filtered and customized. She will come ready-made, like an order at a restaurant. The man on the screen will be bigger than you, rougher than you. He will teach you how to talk to her. He will teach you where to put your hands and he will teach you what you’re supposed to like. He will teach you to take what is yours.

You must unlearn this. You must unlearn this twisted sense of love. You must unlearn the definition of pleasure and intimacy you are being taught. Kill this idea of love, this idea of entitlement, this way of scarring one another.”

” — (via typewriterdaily)

once more, with feeling


tricks of the light
slanting rays described
as outlines in conversation
a lapse of sound, found
trying to reconstruct
what it is that we said
to each other

eyes play a tune obscuring
expressions lost, in review
a resurrections psalm
this vestige, of a feeling
that no longer remains
just these phantom limbs
that can no longer embrace
your memory.


After awhile you forget
How someone looks
You forget the color of their hair
The color of their eyes
How crooked their smile is
Or how many freckles
They got around their nose
You stare at this person
For several hours a day
But when asked to describe
This person
You forget all the little details

But what you do remember
Is how many times they
Twirl their finger around their hair
When waiting for the bus to come
Or if they bite their nails
When waiting for their test scores
To come back
Or how late they are willing to stay up
Just so they can say hello

And I don’t know what’s more painful
Forgetting the little details
Or remembering the moments
That made you fall deeper and deeper
In love with them


When I call you “mine”, I don’t mean that I’m staking a claim of ownership over you, but that you have become such an integral part of me that my body can’t function without you. That you have become the most beautiful part of me, the piece of me I found and can never let go.

When I call you “mine”, it’s not because I want to keep you away from the world, but that I want to hold you close as we travel through life together. Wrapped in our own bubble that keeps out the darkness, no matter how far apart we are we’ll never be alone.

When I call you “mine”, it’s not from some stupid male superiority complex. It’s because I want you to know that of course I’ll do everything in my power to always keep you safe, but in return, I need to know you’re there to protect me too, and that for every time I call you “mine”, I really mean “I’m yours”.

” — giraffevader - When i call you “mine”, i don’t mean to sound like such a dick….. (via giraffevader)


I wish “young adult authors” were yknow, actual young adults in the 18-25 age range at least and not old dudes writing about the high school girl they never got to fuck with and you know who I’m talking about

“The truth is, everyone likes to look down on someone. If your favorites are all avant-garde writers who throw in Sanskrit and German, you can look down on everyone. If your favorites are all Oprah Book Club books, you can at least look down on mystery readers. Mystery readers have sci-fi readers. Sci-fi can look down on fantasy. And yes, fantasy readers have their own snobbishness. I’ll bet this, though: in a hundred years, people will be writing a lot more dissertations on Harry Potter than on John Updike. Look, Charles Dickens wrote popular fiction. Shakespeare wrote popular fiction - until he wrote his sonnets, desperate to show the literati of his day that he was real artist. Edgar Allan Poe tied himself in knots because no one realized he was a genius. The core of the problem is how we want to define “literature”. The Latin root simply means “letters”. Those letters are either delivered - they connect with an audience - or they don’t. For some, that audience is a few thousand college professors and some critics. For others, its twenty million women desperate for romance in their lives. Those connections happen because the books successfully communicate something real about the human experience. Sure, there are trashy books that do really well, but that’s because there are trashy facets of humanity. What people value in their books - and thus what they count as literature - really tells you more about them than it does about the book.” — Brent Weeks (via victoriousvocabulary)

“Being happy is a very personal thing—and it really has nothing to do with anyone else .” — Abraham-Hicks, Getting Into the Vortex  (via tea-storm)

“I firmly believe in small gestures: pay for their coffee, hold the door for strangers, over tip, smile or try to be kind even when you don’t feel like it, pay compliments, chase the kid’s runaway ball down the sidewalk and throw it back to him, try to be larger than you are— particularly when it’s difficult. People do notice, people appreciate. I appreciate it when it’s done to (for) me. Small gestures can be an effort, or actually go against our grain (“I’m not a big one for paying compliments…”), but the irony is that almost every time you make them, you feel better about yourself. For a moment life suddenly feels lighter, a bit more Gene Kelly dancing in the rain.” — Jonathan Carroll (via onlinecounsellingcollege)


I live in Osaka, Japan and often use the subway to go to work in the morning. One day while I was waiting for the train, I noticed a homeless man standing in the corner of the subway station muttering to himself as people passed by. He was holding out a cup and seemed to be begging for spare change.

An overweight woman passed by the homeless man and I distinctly heard him say, “Pig.”

Wow, this man is insulting people and he still expects them to give him money?

Then a tall businessman went by and the man muttered, “Human.”

Human? I can’t argue with that. Obviously, he was human.

The next day, I arrived early at the subway station and had some time to kill, so I decided to stand close to the homeless man and listen to his strange mutterings.  A thin, haggard-looking man passed in front of him and I heard the homeless guy mutter, “Cow.” Cow? The man was much too skinny to be a cow. To me, he resembled a turkey or a chicken. A minute or so later, an obese man went by and the homeless man said, “Potato.” Potato? I was under the impression that he called all fat people “Pig”.

That day at work, I couldn’t stop thinking about the homeless man and his puzzling behavior. I kept trying to find some logic or pattern in what he as muttering. Perhaps he has some kind of psychic ability. In Japan many people believe in reincarnation, so maybe he knows what these people were during a previous life. I observed the man many times and began to think my theory was right. I often heard him calling people things like “Rabbit”, “Onion”, “Sheep”, or “Tomato”.

One day, curiosity got the better of me and I decided to ask him what was going on. As I walked up to him, he looked at me and said, “Bread.” I tossed some money into his cup and asked him if he had some kind of psychic ability. The man smiled and said, “Yes, indeed. It is an ability I obtained many years ago, but it’s not what you might expect. I can’t tell the future or read minds or anything like that.”

“Then what is your ability?” I asked eagerly.

“The ability is merely to know the last thing somebody ate,” he said.

I laughed because I realized he was right. He said, “Bread.” The last thing I had eaten for breakfast that day was toast. I walked away shaking my head. Of all the psychic abilities someone could have, that one must be the most useless.