gaulllimaufry:

its kinda stang e

(via miserabelia)

vincentlittlehat:

I'm giving up on giving up
Vincent Littlehat photographed by Gust FlikAmsterdam

vincentlittlehat:

I'm giving up on giving up

Vincent Littlehat photographed by Gust Flik
Amsterdam

For many of these women, the reading experience begins from a place of seething rage. Take Sara Marcus’ initial impression of Jack Kerouac: “I remember putting On the Road down the first time a woman was mentioned. I was just like: ‘Fuck. You.’ I was probably 15 or 16. And over the coming years I realized that it was this canonical work, so I tried to return to it, but every time I was just like, ‘Fuck you.’” Tortorici had a similarly visceral reaction to Charles Bukowski: “I will never forget reading Bukowski’s Post Office and feeling so horrible, the way that the narrator describes the thickness of ugly women’s legs. I think it was the first time I felt like a book that I was trying to identify with rejected me. Though I did absorb it, and of course it made me hate my body or whatever.” Emily Witt turned to masculine texts to access a sexual language that was absent from books about women, but found herself turned off by their take: “many of the great classic coming-of-age novels about the female experience don’t openly discuss sex,” she says in No Regrets. “I read the ones by men instead, until I was like, ‘I cannot read another passage about masturbation. I can’t. It was like a pile of Kleenex.”

This isn’t just about the books. When young women read the hyper-masculine literary canon—what Emily Gould calls the “midcentury misogynists,” staffed with the likes of Roth, Mailer, and Miller—their discomfort is punctuated by the knowledge that their male peers are reading these books, identifying with them, and acting out their perspectives and narratives. These writers are celebrated by the society that we live in, even the one who stabbed his wife. In No Regrets, Elif Bautman talks about reading Henry Miller for the first time because she had a “serious crush” on a guy who said his were “the best books ever,” and that guy’s real-life recommendation exacerbated her distaste for the fictional. When she read Miller, “I felt so alienated by the books, and then thinking about this guy, and it was so hot and summertime … I just wanted to kill myself. … He compared women to soup.”

  July 23, 2014 at 09:17pm
via Slate

drinkmehalfway:

Austin Texas

(via miserabelia)

zooeyclairedeschanel:

i have no interest in small talk tell me about ur childhood and what ur parents are like and how many siblings u have and if u are afraid of death or if u believe in an afterlife and what ur favorite movie is and if u like romantic comedies or horror movies or action movies and what kind of music u like and why and tell me the bands or artists u loved in middle school but are too ashamed to admit to anyone else and

(via juliatrotti)

ted should’ve ended up with victoria.

  July 23, 2014 at 06:25pm
megan fox looks crazy attractive here

megan fox looks crazy attractive here

(via tibbielu)

#girls  

orientaltiger:

Natalie Wilson

lmaoalien:

honestly saying “youre a twig lets get some meat on those bones” is just as offensive and embarrassing as “youre fat, watch what you eat” may not seem like it but trust me

(via stefunny)

nevver:

“If you could say it in words, there would be no reason to paint.”
Edward Hopper

#art  
  July 22, 2014 at 07:52pm
via nevver
jeou:



Jeong Yu Mi for Mokenajung, October 2010

jeou:

Jeong Yu Mi for Mokenajung, October 2010

(via lilydesu)

#goals  #girls  
  July 22, 2014 at 01:59pm
via jeou

(via dreamsanddarkness)

#flesh  

Artwork of Stefan Sagmeister.

Artwork of Stefan Sagmeister.

(via miserabelia)

#words  

katemess:

is dane dehaan EVEN REAL

(via brynboston)

It’s still you. It’ll be you when you fracture your wrist at 4AM and call me when I have a presentation the next morning. It’ll be you when you ask to drive my new car and crash it into a telephone pole. It’ll be you if we hate each other for a day or a few. And if you break my favourite mug. And if you keep forgetting our anniversary and make it up to me by baking a salty cake. It’ll be you when your dad dies and you stop talking because you don’t know how. It’ll be you when you crawl softly into my open arms. It’ll be you when your mum calls me a “whore” and you jerk your chin and all you say is “no.” It’s you when you’re messy and ill and sweaty. You when you leave the house door unlocked. You when you burp drunkenly into my ear and curl into my side like a baby. It’ll be you when you burn breakfast in bed and then kiss me for five minutes straight. It’ll be you when your hair gets too long and you can’t be bothered to cut it. You when you fall asleep on the sofa with the cat on your chest. You when we fight and turn everything to rubble. You when you put your mouth to my ear and whisper “it’s you. It’s still you.”

Azra.T “It’s still you, it’s still you - MA” (via 5000letters)

(via backshelfpoet)