Memories of My Melancholy Womancrushes.
I wrote this on request for the B-Insider. LOL at my predictability.
Reblogged from [sofia coppola].
why i write like a girl
Because I am a girl, whether you like it or not. Because the whole of human experience is to say the least overwhelming; to divide it in half, to write about female experiences in what might be a female way, is closer to achievable. Is realistic? Is less arrogant. Because I may be a narcissist forever and ever amen but I am not arrogant enough to think that I am impartial, omnipotent, the voice of God, the New York Times. Because writing like a guy has given us Monocle; think about that. Because, despite Monocle, no one seems to complain about anybody writing like a guy. Because Gertrude Stein. Because Virginia Woolf. Because Daphne du Maurier. Because Simone de Beauvoir. Because Anne Sexton. Because bell hooks. Because Joan Didion. Because we don’t know for anything like sure if there is anything bigger than our selves. Because certainly I am not those things. Certainly I can’t say. Can only speak for me and for people like me, people that tend, after all, to be female. Can only write what I think, feel; can’t know. Can only write “I.” Refuse to think of that as a failing.
What honestly makes me think that it will be alright?
(Source: pericyazine)
Reblogged from I could be happy or in distress.
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"Let’s face it: We are who we are, and we will carry ourselves into the New Year with all of our glorious character defects intact. It’s no sin to be imperfect. God made us this way, or our genes did, or our mom did, and it’s never too late to say Fuck change, I hate myself just the way I am."
— Unremitting Failure (via nevver)
Reblogged from this isn't happiness..
The Selfish Girl's Guide to the Holidays »
Hey girl, this is just a thing I wrote one night for the B-Insider about how you should really take care of yourself, too. Click to read! Not you, mom.
This is exactly it; I could swear I’ve said this just like it.
Reblogged from this isn't happiness..
I said I wouldn’t get instagram and then I got instagram. You can follow me, if you like, at snpsnpsnp. (Creative.) (My friend Corey, pictured, sent me this screenshot; isn’t it so pretty and despicable?)
Earlier tonight at a party someone said that I reminded them of Blondie even though it seems fairly obvious that I don’t look like Blondie, and even though my hair hasn’t been diamond-light like this in a while, and really never was. I thought about how most of the time even when I’m blonde or lavender or pink or whatever I still identify with and idolize almost exclusively brunettes (I’m obsessed with redheads but that’s another bedtime story). Simone de Beauvoir, Sofia Coppola, Charlotte Gainsbourg, Patti Smith, Winona Ryder, Jane Birkin, these are my women, all brown-haired girls. I wonder sometimes why I can’t be like them/look more like me…. then I remember Blondie.
(Source: nickdrake)
Reblogged from Eastern Promises of Steez.
It must be called something - institutionally restless/individually content - that I can’t fathom staying in one place for very long, that I’ve never lived in any one apartment longer than fourteen months, that I want to travel and see things and do things always, but that I can entertain myself for days at a time with nothing more than a spoon or whatever. Think up a better way for me to understand that. I think it means I’m just like super, super, super evolved, probably. </jk>
Yes, and “in the mind of a woman for whom no place is home, the thought of an end to all flight is unbearable.” This has been etched on my brain since I first read Kundera.
Reblogged from KATE CARRAWAY.
twenty-six
In every lifetime, probably, there comes a birthday you just don’t want to have. Maybe if I’d stopped for a minute I would have seen mine coming. But I didn’t. Still it happened so that there was an easy way out of my life for a little while, and after London, one of the girls I’ve known longest (and best) took the train with me to Paris. The best boy in the world lives there now. We’d eat and dance and drink and talk and drink and eat and smoke. We’d be in Paris. Paris! Everything would be alright! It wasn’t, of course, but it was beautiful.
