Roommates: The dicks across the alley from us launched eggs in our backyard. We want pay back and we need a sling shot. Hence asking for your bra, we feel as though your boobie holder will give enough velocity to hit their house.
Me: There’s an old one in the bottom drawer of my dresser.
Roommates: TIT LAUNCHER HAS BEEN INITIALIZED, DOMINATION INEVITABLE.
<this is where they chest bump, run up the stairs cackling into the dark while holding my bra>
When you’re in that phase of “talking” or full fledge dating one another, I suggest that you stay clear of their facebook, twitter, blog, or any other social media surface that publicly displays comments from other people. Unless you’ve gained the maturity to withstand the brewing rage inside of you when you see Debbie Maybell from Bumfuck Egypt commenting on your boyfriends Facebook picture with “;) teehee sexy” or Mami4u2nv @tweeting him, “why don’t you stop over my house sometime, sweetie xo.”
If your partner is exclusive to you, there should be nothing to worry about. He should have the respect for you to handle the situation like he’s suppose to. If other girls are throwing their e-cooch all over him and he entertains the idea, obviously you both aren’t on the same level of commitment. Which means you need to reevaluate your situation and not go completely psychotic and messaging or tweeting or blogging about these girls and them needing to stop.
No matter how much you’d love to segregate your man from the easy access of ass & titties, you’re going to have to let him be a big boy on his own. You can’t prevent other woman from wanting him by constantly stating how “this is yours” to every flirty message he gets. If he’s yours, then he is yours. You’re not proving that to other people, you’re proving that to yourself out of your own insecurity. And frankly, any guy who makes you feel insecure online, definitely doesn’t deserve you offline.
Hi. I love following you, I have been for almost a year now, and you’re one of the reasons I joined tumblr. You have such a different view of so many commonplace things. I read your posts and just think, yes, exactly. You intimidate me though, mostly I think because you're living your life the exact way I wish I could live mine. You make everything seem possible. You're picking up and moving to Italy? Awesome. I would love to know you in real life; I can't imagine that anyone wouldn't. Corny as it sounds, I think you’re helping me to be a better person, more me. You’ve taught me that it’s okay to change your mind about what you want to be when you “grow up,” that it’s okay to explore the facets of your sexuality, and that even if you let your true weird self show, you’ll be surrounded with great, equally odd people. I know you don't know me, and so what I have to say probably doesn't mean much, but I think that you are such an inspiring, interesting, amazing person, and I just wanted you to know.
Stop blowing smoke up my ass dressed as a gentleman when you’re not capable of following through with the mannerisms. I’ll like you for your honesty, but I won’t give you my time because of your tendencies.
You are by far the sexiest kind of man and the type of men that I seek.
Being able to lay naked with you and watching our bodies interlock, it always looks like you’re the bare canvas and i’m the artwork. We curate a museum together. I love that your skin is untouched and we look completely opposite of each other. Minimalist and abstract. Two combinations that attract me.
There ain’t no rest for the wicked Money don’t grow on trees I got bills to pay I got mouths to feed Ain’t nothing in this world for free No I can’t slow down I can’t hold back Though you know I wish I could No there ain’t no rest for the wicked Until we close our eyes for good
I was one of those kids that were friends with everyone and hung out with nobody. I lived in Tokyo during the week to attend private school then sat on a train for hours to go back home to my little village on the outskirts of Nagasaki for the weekend, so I used to go through countless journals writing stories. Which is a habit that still continues today.
I never went to parties. I ditched a lot of classes to go skate and smoke weed and hang out at the arcade. Then my grandmother found out and started walking me to school and waiting for me outside every single day. Mind you, for at least three years.
I never applied myself, for some reason I was fearful of excelling because I didn’t want to be noticed. I tried my best to stay under the radar. I was heavily influenced by hip hop (Masta Ace to be specific), I preoccupied myself a lot and pretty much just did my own thing.
I was never really “there” as a teenager. I didn’t have angst, I didn’t have problems and I didn’t have an identity crisis. I had fun being by myself playing Nintendo, hanging out with my dad, BMXing through rice fields, running around Tokyo unsupervised, reading comics, listening to American music and spending all of my lunch money either at the arcade or record store.
Nothing tragic ever happened. People remember their friends, the achievements, the relationships or some awful thing they had to go through. For me, I just remember the freedom and the reflections I recollected on the train rides back home.
Earlier today when I was skating home some stupid asshole decided to not look where he was biking and crashed right into me. Not only did he break the front half of my board, but he sent me flying in the middle of the street on my hands and knees during a prime time hours for tourism buses.
I scuffled back with bloody knees dripping down my shins on the verge of tears and bewilderment. Not only did this guy crash into me, he got on his bike and rode off without saying ANYTHING. Not a “hey sorry for fucking up your board and causing you to get thrown in traffic” or “hey i’m a dickhole who can’t ride a bike”. Absolutely NOTHING. Three people stopped what they were doing and rushed over to help me and gather up all of my things. One guy even took out his work shirt to wipe off my blood that was all over my hands and legs. At the same time of being relieved of nice people tending to my injuries, I was infuriated with tears streaming down my face. I picked up my broken board, limped to the nearest Metro station and called my roommate to come pick me up.
I put a brave face on for everyone. Shrugging off the injuries while I sat at the edge of the bath tub picking out gravel that engrained itself inside of my cuts and soaking my hands enough to where they felt less painful. I laid across my bed and thought about other things, not about the twat that caused all of this, not the fact that my body was screaming, or my means of transportation was just a pile of wood. I kept it to myself simply because I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. Pride kept me in tact long enough to convince people I was okay.
Now here I sit, with ice packs on my knees, my ribs, and bandages wrapped around my palms streaming with tears. All I want is someone to just be here with me and hold the ice against my stomach and rub my head long enough to where I can drift off into a sleep rather than laying here by myself feeling every throb when I move. But because I put off this complete emotional and physical break down from the accident, I have nobody thats here who will calm me down. I know I shouldn’t say I feel pathetic, but it’s true. And right now I just want to throw all these ice bags at the guy who put me in this situation and fuck up his legs. I just can’t deal right now.
On a day like today where I’ve had my morning coffee and no plans, I find myself always drifting to the Smithsonian museums.
I pack my journals up, stick my straggling pens in my hair to hold it up and walk slowly to the large castle like building across from the monument. I always say that i’m going to kill some time until I figure out what I want to do, I know I don’t want to go home, but I know I have to get something creative accomplished.
As I scale through the art work and read brief biographies of important people, I always see one corner of the exhibit thats not occupied and show casing a free bench that just beckons to me. Briefly I think to myself, alright, i’ll just sit here for a couple of minutes. Next thing you know, hours go by and i’m sitting at that very bench drawing and writing through pages of these journals I just packed. Museums just do that for me. They overload all of my senses to give me this orgasmic creative burst that I need. Sort of like a refuel for a long work week.
I walk out with endless notes of things I want to accomplish, places I want to go, characters I want to write about, people I want to draw and this overwhelming feel of relaxation. As if just coming to the museum takes a very scattered brain and sorts it all out for me just because I came for a visit. Being around great minds, great work, and brilliant amounts of creativity makes me a better a person. It makes my life better.