1 day ago   •   75 notes   •   VIA: xmaslemmings   •   SOURCE: xmaslemmings
  • xmaslemmings:

    I have vague potential. I’m accepted at Red Building Academy and leave in the fall, mom and I sobbing clutching hands in the driveway. In my dorm I share a four poster with a boy named Daniel who’s immediately yammering about video games, nerdy yet loquacious and overbearing rather than shy. I collect books and papers from the dispensary and climb the flights back up (the elevator having malfunctioned.) When it’s apparent neither of us are sleeping I make a clumsy proposition: what would he do if I was his robot? In the mornings I discover that self directed learning is a chance to do nothing and I look for dark places with WWW access. The carpets are plush (aggravating my allergies) and they’re woven with intricate intertwined piping and geometric blooms from doorway to doorway in the too-wide halls where girls are passing in their socks and their skirts. Could I fake my way through a project on Neon Genesis Evangelion, peddling it as the zeitgeist to too-eager profs clinging to shreds of artistic relevance? It has to be bulletproof, and here my closet status becomes capital: if I wrap half-developed observations on Shinji’s queerness and the Eva as a metaphor for bodily discomfort and dissonance within an outpouring of emotion for my own body and queerness I might be unflunkable. I take lunches with Kate and Cheryl and Michelle, insinuating myself gently into the circle, laughing at their filthy jokes and joining them in excited talk re: Buffy, surprised this is coming so easily. Then I lie in darkness for two months. I handle expulsion badly and I plot to remain on the grounds for as long as possible, hiding in empty rooms and empty hallways where no one ever goes, keeping crawlspaces packed with rotting food. It doesn’t last. When a wave of murders sweeps the student body I’m reading it off a screen in a room in my mother and father’s house with a window looking onto a concrete surface covered with kudzu.
    I’m driving by and decide to hop the wall. The building’s been shuttered ten years and is largely a ruin. I break a window. The inside is dank. It looks smaller. Signs of struggle have faded with age but here, here, there, and here are barricades where survivors made camp and waited the week for help—for anyone—stumbling in the dark on the bodies of adults and listening in the daylight for footsteps. There’s blood here, shattered stained glass and mirror and crystal and gnarled rope and metal shavings. Here is the room where I slept the days away. What did they do at night?
    I’m driving. It’s forest from here. Gates to parks are closed. The car is filled with trash. There are no streetlights. Power lines cut across the moon. The moon is obscured by trees. It’s hard to see. The road turns dirt. There are hills in these woods. The car is running out of gas. I drink soda. The car is out of gas. I get out to piss. I can’t see the ground. I piss. I can’t see the car. I slide down a hillside. My jacket is snagged by branches. The teeth on a jagged hollow stump catch my belly. I am wet. I reach for my phone but my arm is held by brambles. My head is held by brambles. The lock screen appears. I swipe to unlock it. The home screen appears. I have many apps to choose from. I open the tumblr app. I need to post about this. I read my dash. There’s this girl, Crystal Castles. She’s 23. She named herself that. She’s writing about sex. She says that she’s switchy. I send her a private message. I say I’m bleeding to death in the woods. She’s alarmed and she says she’s sorry to hear that. I say it’s cool. I say I don’t know why I’m venting. I say she has her own problems to deal with. She does. I wonder: are our experiences going to be so different that we at some point become mutually incoherent. I open the camera app. I take a picture of my black-tipped fingers poised atop the brambled wood protrusions shredding my guts. I post it to tumblr. It takes a while to upload. Crystal faves it. She replies: :(. It’s supposed to look kind of witchy. It’s not working. This needs better lighting than a camera flash. When I was 23 I had years of food service and immobilizing depression ahead of me. I wonder how it will be for her. Retail, maybe. Driving home every day to “The Waitress” by Tori Amos. It was kind of funny but also kind of cathartic. Then there’s a live version of “The Waitress” where the lyrics have changed. They indicate that Tori’s grown as a person and become more compassionate and perhaps spiritual. I found that very comforting.

    2 days ago   •   259 notes   •   VIA: jerkcityhd   •   SOURCE: jerkcityhd
  • jerkcityhd:

the moon

    jerkcityhd:

    the moon

    2 days ago   •   31 notes   •   VIA: collaterlysisters   •   SOURCE: collaterlysisters
  • collaterlysisters:

    there is apparently some evidence of hemodynamic adaptation to zero-g via diuresis and increased left ventricular filling: http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pubmed/11541656

    this is hard to interpret given the length of the experiment, and the fact that no one was asking them about their boners. those poor brave souls.

    I trust this experiment more, and there’s full text available: http://lib.med.tottori-u.ac.jp/yam/yam46-1/46_001-008.pdf

    what this tells us is that there’s a transient increase in blood volume and velocity followed by a compensatory vasodilation, decreased CO and blood flow velocity, and pooling of the blood in the extremities. So again, sympathetic constriction of the arterioles to maintain MAP (sympathetic activation independently inhibits erection/promotes PE through direct neural mechanisms) and dilation of the venous system, which is basically erectile Kryptonite.

    2 days ago   •   94 notes   •   VIA: collaterlysisters   •   SOURCE: spacetwinks
  • collaterlysisters:

    spacetwinks:

    crowdfund my homemade rocket to achieve my lifelong dream of sucking dick on the moon

    apparently its real hard to get it up in zero-g

    go on…

    2 days ago   •   728 notes   •   VIA: foie   •   SOURCE: whateveryoulove-youare
  • 2 days ago   •   459 notes   •   VIA: ghostbongweedofthesamurai   •   SOURCE: freemasonic-yowl
  • Share a Coke with

    freemasonic-yowl:

    Members of a paramilitary unit hired to murder workers trying to unionize bottling plants

    2 days ago   •   86 notes   •   VIA: gendertrashfromhell   •   SOURCE: gendertrashfromhell
  • gendertrashfromhell:

    glad to know i can always turn to tumblr when im all alone and need to see? skeletons? milhouse?

    2 days ago   •   890 notes   •   VIA: vonmonsta   •   SOURCE: lesfleursdelart
  • lesfleursdelart:

Sarah Bernhardt dans son salon (1890)

    lesfleursdelart:

    Sarah Bernhardt dans son salon (1890)

    #goals  
    2 days ago   •   23,972 notes   •   VIA: witnessthesurreal   •   SOURCE: thegaathing
  • ARTIST: Paprika
    TRACK: Parade
    ALBUM: Paprika OST
    201,749 plays
    #music  
    2 days ago   •   82 notes
  • Here’s a little pencil portrait of a lesser aristocrat of hell. I didn’t have any particular prince in mind while I was drawing, I assume this is one of the little guys who only command like one or two legions of devils and probably doesn’t have any impressive manifestations. Some weird smash-face antlered dog monster with a patchy frock coat and no pants is about as good as he gets. Maybe he can also appear as a single withered fig on a chipped pottery plate, and “thee hump of a Cammel, set upon a skating-board of no great Qualitye, ande Fyve Trumpetts Behind.” His name is Squalmagog.

    If you want to buy this sketch (it’s 4x6”, graphite and white ink on paper) send me an ask or a fan mail (or a twitter @3liza) with an offer; I’m not real pumped on making a whole Etsy listing tonight!

    2 days ago   •   19 notes
  • another feral kitten fact is that she has jumped into the toilet about five times and shows no signs of slowing down

    2 days ago   •   112 notes   •   VIA: t-d-x   •   SOURCE: 3liza
  • t-d-x:

    3liza:

    3liza:

    current list of feral kitten names, in order of frequency of use: peeper, small cat, the little one (v. the big one, meaning the other cat), wee fish, wee pig, jingles

    the little cat has learned to sing and chatter to humans, probably because of the relentless encouragement this receives in the house (unless it becomes howling, whining, or screaming, which is not allowed and will be discouraged) so she has some good songs about dinnertime, breakfast time, what are you eating, can i have some, a bird, a bug, some feathers, the shower, the sink, the toilet, etc

    post a song from that little cat

    "weeeee, aweeeeeem, wee-argh, yeeeem-waaa, yeeee-eeeeeee-weeee" etc

    2 days ago   •   35 notes   •   VIA: 3liza   •   SOURCE: 3liza
  • ARTIST: Garrison Keillor
    TRACK: Ole On His Deathbed
    ALBUM: A Prairie Home Companion
    303 plays
    2 days ago   •   53 notes
  • here is a bonus feral kitten Fact: when we took her to get spayed she needed a name for the intake form so we put “Kato” because that is the name of Inspector Clouseau’s valet/bodyguard (although it’s spelled “Cato” in the movies apparently), whose main presence within the Pink Panther series consists of ambushing the Inspector and beating the crap out of him at every opportunity, in order to “hone [the inspector’s] reflexes”. this is precisely the relationship between the feral kitten and her larger, more powerful roommate.

    2 days ago   •   112 notes   •   VIA: 3liza   •   SOURCE: 3liza
  • 3liza:

    current list of feral kitten names, in order of frequency of use: peeper, small cat, the little one (v. the big one, meaning the other cat), wee fish, wee pig, jingles

    the little cat has learned to sing and chatter to humans, probably because of the relentless encouragement this receives in the house (unless it becomes howling, whining, or screaming, which is not allowed and will be discouraged) so she has some good songs about dinnertime, breakfast time, what are you eating, can i have some, a bird, a bug, some feathers, the shower, the sink, the toilet, etc

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