Mr. McGrumpyFace is wishing he was blue. And that Mork & Mindy was still on the air.
flamigo (via photophob)
Just freaked out because car key wasn’t in my bag. I’m sitting at a red light.
I’m hungry for the spiderwebbian delicacy of Modernist details. And a cheeseburger.
Is the paparazzi following me? ‘Cause this is totally what I wore to work today.
Lady, that is some fine tail you got there!
(via starehard : artsjournal)
I can't …
I can’t: * open a newspaper machine (do they still exist?) * walk significant distances in flat shoes that aren’t flipflops (damn tendons) * sing (utterly, hopelessly tone deaf) * sleep in any position but face down * be patient when someone, somewhere is popping gumBlow up balloons.
Or blow a bubble with gum.
I’ve tried. My ears feel like they’ll pop off. Nothing.
But I can pretty much burp on demand.
So. What can’t you do?
(I can’t make this an official question because the iPhone client doesn’t give me that option.)
I can’t be girly. I don’t know how to put on makeup, I don’t know how to have good hair or how to dress like a normal adult female. I never had anyone to learn that stuff from, and I never have picked it up. I’m lucky I figured out feminine hygiene or I’d have been tossed in a dumpster long ago.
Nervous.
Wow—was just having the same conversation with myself. Trying to be better about it, rather than just pretending to be Grace Kelly with binoculars. (Though oogling Jimmy Stewart wouldn’t be half bad, and I do love me some Grace … .)
You guys are like characters in my fave books—who talk to each other! It’s like Darcy is talking about his day to Ignatius, who is having a side convo with Clarissa about ballsacks. On long insomniac nights, sometimes you’re more real than my RL friends … . Thanks for keeping me company. Hearts to your irreverence and honesty and genuinity (might’ve made that word up). Hearts.
It occured to me today that I am not really all that much better at making friends on the internet than I am at making friends in person.
I’m just too nervous.
Sometimes I really want to comment on things or reply to a tweet or send you a DM, but then I chicken out because why would you want to talk to me?
I’m just too nervous.
Don’t be. I truly think you’re awesome.
Odd. I feel the same way.
I think, “That person will think I’m weird for saying that. Or for contacting them.”
Nervous, indeed.
One of the best things about summer. Lightening bugs, fireflies—they remind me of honeysuckle smell & long afternoons with my brothers riding Big Wheels over bumpy sidewalks. Love y’all!
(via taleeroe)
