My baby is hip as shit
Surely this photo alone exonerates me from my eternally square existence.
Surely this photo alone exonerates me from my eternally square existence.
A list of things Brittney’s learned. A list of things I’m learning. I’m happy to know people who provide useful cheat sheets.
You know. For your FEMALE DISORDERS like feelings and dreams. (From the always incredible BIRCH from Memphis Flickr feed.)
I get too excited when my art worlds collide. Since The Knife’s new album came out a few months ago, I’ve been absentmindedly turning the phrase “I’m telling you stories — trust me” over and over and over in my mind, like a cough drop of sorts. Savoring its succinct sweetness and familiarity. And finally, fucking finally, it dawned on me the other day why that phrase instantly took hold of me. Oh, you know,…
This is going to sound like bad poetry because I am not sure how best to articulate it. But I’ll try. Once in a while, the mind takes hold of something and slows down everything around it — the clock ticking, the Earth’s revolutions, the breaths coming from your own nostrils — as if to crystallize and distill and separate out the destination, faint pinprick as it may be, from the rest of the ordinary…
I stayed home from work today. Blame it on not getting home from work until 1 a.m. and then being up half the remaining night with an angry stomach. I have powered through days on three hours of sleep more times than I care to recount but today it was not happening. I fed my baby breakfast and kept him away from sharks and live wires until naptime, and then I went back to bed.…
You will have to take my word for it. This thing was on our front porch for a few days. I never saw the spider because I’m assuming it lived ON TOP OF THE ENTIRE ROOF.
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