I'm pulling up stakes and moving over to Dreampepper. Let me know if you're still here, I'll put you on my RSS feed, and feel free to try to talk me into following the crowd to somewhere like Dreamwidth or Ello, because I still believe blogging brings us closer together than short form walled-garden posting every will.

I'm not sure how I could ( Read more... )

I am awake. It is nine a.m. I have been awake since two a.m., when I woke crying, my insides twisting, the broken edges of all the pieces of my sharply broken heart grinding together in grief, and slipped from bed to throw up in the bathroom for half an hour from pain ( Read more... )

"I Left My Heart" SF Timelapse Project from Marc Donahue.
I spent a week in the Bay area in January. I wanted to break myself open against it. Sink my teeth into life there. Accept its sly smile as a promise. It felt like the glossy magazine promise of the future is possible, obvious, and true and laid out in front of you, and even though there are ( Read more... )

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Steubenville: this is rape culture's Abu Ghraib moment, by Laurie Penny.
"The pictures from Steubenville don’t just show a girl being raped. They show that rape being condoned, encouraged, celebrated. What type of culture could possibly produce such pictures ( Read more... )

Dear Sugar, The Rumpus Advice Column #44: HOW YOU GET UNSTUCK:
[...]I hung up the phone feeling like my sternum had cracked open. Before I could even take a breath, in walked the girl whose mother’s boyfriend repeatedly almost drowned her with the garden hose in the back yard. She sat down in the chair near my desk where all the girls sat narrating ( Read more... )

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Portal 2: Exile Vilify, a hidden song by The NationalMonday: It was just after midnight when he opened the door. In the interest of brevity, I will leave out the next three hours, excepting my desire to be wanted, kicked in like a knife, a piercing pain that has yet to fade. Suffice to say, A. has gone away. Like in the old stories, antique, ( Read more... )

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This evening my mother and I went through some of the things Brenda left behind in the storage bench when she died. Everything neglected, yellowing, ten to twenty years old. Music notation, folders for a defunct band, rejection letters from Island Records and Virgin, acres of her hand-writing, pages upon pages that she touched with her hands. The ( Read more... )