What I look like…asian with platinum hair
I wish you
- Clear skin
- 4.0 GPA
- Focus
- Clear goals
- Love
- Affection
- Peace
- Self love
- Good things from the universe
More you might like
southern witchcraft is
watching flour fall like lazy snowflakes in your grandmother’s kitchen. her weathered hands are kneading dough and your aunts are telling stories about weddings from twenty years ago. it smells like cinnamon and wine. their cackles could ignite a fire.
hiding under honeysuckle and trying to stay out of the noontime sun. the grass is burnt to a crisp and you are sucking sugar from the petals. the air is so hot that it suffocates you. it tastes like the salt of your skin.
digging through trunks in the attic and finding delicate lace from a time long gone. old records that wail the voices of our past–church hymns and stories of the devil. your shirt wears the perfume of history when you descend with old, sepia-stained pictures in hand. it’s you asking your papaw to tell you about the war.
barefoot walks down to the water, mud clinging to your clothes for dear life. mosquito bites and their scabs are worn as proudly as dirt on your nose. it’s lifting palmfuls of water to the sky; it’s the freedom of a thunderstorm.
trips to crumbling cemeteries where even the gravestones don’t remember their names. heat lightning blooms above you in rolling clouds. distant brontide, carrying the voices of the past and making the little hairs stand up at the back of your neck. it’s picking the weeds and saying hello to your ancestors.
mom and dad dancing to some old song. her smile turns her into a young girl again, and he spins her ‘round and ‘round. it’s “I knew from the moment I saw her.” bands of gold tarnished by a hard day’s work times ten thousand. dinner on the table and “give me some sugar.”
funeral casseroles and “she looks so good.” black garb adorned with pearls and a handkerchief waiting to catch tears. stories you’ve heard at least a hundred times. cigarettes on the back porch. lies laced in last wills and testaments. preachers calling out to the lord almighty. it’s the way the flowers already smell like rot.
dumping more sugar into the pitcher of fresh-brewed tea and carrying glasses onto the porch as night falls. lightning bugs become your companions as you run amuck with your cousins. it’s secrets told over the hum of cicadas. it’s that “well, i guess so” when a mason jar of liquid abandon is passed around a bonfire.
how to irritate the signs at a party
water: point out how weird and awkward they are being, and don’t let them pet the dog/cat. then ask if they are an introvert or something.
fire: find out what current “social justice” kick they are on and play devil’s advocate. also tell them they are unreasonable.
earth: insist on helping them with every single thing (from prepping the food to getting up from the table) and hover too close.
air: when they start talking about something, go ahead and interrupt, say “well actually…”, and go on a tangent that has nothing to do with what they were saying.
So apparently I just picked up an $8,000 organ off of the curb
The few seconds before I realized you meant the instrument were terrifying
“There are things I too hold down inside / glacial shores, screaming memories,”
— Birhan Keskin, tr. by George Messo, from Selected Poems; “Instrumental,”
(via weltenwellen)
like full offense, but why are romcoms constantly being criticized for being “unrealistic” and “too self indulgent” but action movies with impossible car stunts and huge shoot out scenes that are led by an average looking, mildly in shape man (who is somehow a practically indestructible and unbeatable fighting robot) are not?
the answer is because romcoms are generally made for women, and women’s fantasies are never indulged by society the same way men’s are.
she said what had to be said
