therumpus:

The Rumblr’s in-house astrologer, Madame Clairevoyant, presents her latest dispatch from the stars:

Pisces: Your days might be full of motion this week, and they might be full of surprises, and they might be full of wild desires that you hardly recognize, that you can hardly even name. If you search for courage you can find it, and if you search for kindness you can find it, and if you search for joy, your whole life can bloom. Let your life fill with music. Let your life fill with color. You don’t have to settle for anything less than what you need.

Today’s image was made specially for Madame Clairevoyant by Jen May.

an excerpt from yesterday

  • mariam: [driving into mall parking garage] oh my god, we have to pay for parking?
  • michelle: yeah, i have cash--
  • mariam: no, i like, don't mind paying, i just think it's really tacky.

A really cute thing to do on Friday night is go to whole foods + stay within budget, then drive home + eat the block of mozzarella cheese you just bought and were supposed to cook with later—particularly cute if you’re listening to Your Body - Xtina: if you don’t know where to go / I’ll finish off on my own

after the lorde show, while we were still in the transitional excess of the post-show high, laughing and spilling everywhere, outrageous, spontaneous hugs all around for everybody. —i said, loudly, walking down the stairs, “I’m a survivor!” (in reference to kesha i think), and i felt fingers on my arm, and i was ok with it, i didn’t frown in the strange boy’s face, and the strange boy said “me too” a little too loudly, and i deflated: “just of adolescence,” i shrugged and clarified, and he kept holding on to my arm, more tightly “ME TOO,” he said, “me too.” 

babyajumummy:

Stuffed grape leaves and lamb shanks chez mariam

I made this,

me @ me, me about this blog, etc etc etc, like i just want to bury myself in so many layers of self parody that i will actually own everything and everyone and my self will cease to be real but only because it’s too real,

here’s my story with sophia calle—it’s not a very good story and isn’t worth repeating or reproducing but if you’re a girl who’s ever dated a boy you’ll know how to handle the bone deep dissatisfaction, (i mean)

when i was a sad senior tied up in 25 units, 3 internships +  nursing a v broken heart (rest, it was all a lovely performance of Sad Strung Out Girl), i used to go to moe’s books on friday mornings and lay down with my american apparel backpack and i would take up too much space—

—coyly apologize when my body got in the way but, no where else did i let my body take up space or get in the way, so it was all a little bit experimental on my end.

sometimes when i’d buy books i’d talk to the bookseller about mcsweeney’s, i mean i let him talk at me about mcsweeney’s—he had such a passionate hatred it was (almost not) endearing and i should have asked him if they’d rejected something he’d submitted bc like, breath brother. (i mean i still bought my mcsweeney’s, i just let him shame me for it while he rang it up bc it made him feel Strong and Real and what else am i here for if not to make failed male writers feel Strong and Real)

The thing with the address book - sophie calle is it comes wrapped,  you can’t really read it unless you’ve bought it and ripped it open. so i grabbed a copy and sat behind the couch on the second floor, and i ripped it open in the store, and it was almost like that time i accidentally stole a tootsie roll from rite-aid, then got mad at myself because of everything i could shop lift. i read it in less than an hour and googled sophie calle on my phone and decided, with a performative nod that i wanted to be just like sophie calle when i grew up. i commemorated it all by writing her name in notes app. 

later that day i got lunch with a v. v. famous and decorated poet—an awfully small perk of an internship—and while we were crossing the street between bancroft and telegraph, she stopped just stopped in the middle of the cross walk, and she put her hand on my back and said

—you have such depth, you remind me of sophie calle— 

and i mean i laughed so hard the altoid i was sucking on almost fell out

sometimes when i’m driving to work or carrying my tea to my room or picking a new nail color at target i’ll think of what used to happen to his body when he’d realize i’d read something that he hadn’t, and i’ll feel like i have arthritis in my fingers so ill open the tumblr app just to make sure my fingers still work. —i started wearing my hair to the left, but it didn’t work for my bangs. i perfected my sigh, and started writing with noise—you know, like, well, i don’t know, yeah, like, i mean, you know—writing with no commas or semicolons pretending to be commas; i started acting cute, giggling at your compliments, biting my nails for the aesthetic, making wide eyes and blinking in your face. i burned all the grilled cheese sandwiches i made, so i stopped buying expensive cheese and learned to love kraft. i started writing about shallow teenage girls, and my writing professor was confused, what happened, is everything ok, yes, yeah, you know, just keep shrugging, keep blinking, maybe start wearing more bows, anywhere you can, right around your neck, buy ribbons and make bows everywhere, tiny little bows.

when i was 17, i said, i would never date a boy born in the 80s— haven’t you seen heathers?

it was all such a liability, my pretty hands dirty nails and my books any thought was too intimidating any well constructed sentence, nothing is wrong but nothing is true.

but you know, midnight rolls around eventually, and nails grow and, i really do live beside a pool, where everything is good, 

babyajumummy:

my problem is i always want everyone to love me best out of anyone in the room, but the second someone does i don’t believe them and hold them in contempt for having such poor taste

“TV taught me how to feel
Now real life has no appeal”

Oh No! / Marina & the Diamonds

Is a really very accurate and succinct summary of my feelings re Gilmore Girls, like beyond the fact that I just want to be Lorelei (I mean, I am Lorelei, I’m both Lorelei’s), Gilmore Girls taught me that I don’t have to use language to communicate, I can just speak in pop culture references, and blink and scoff @you when you inevitably don’t get it, 

We live in an age of some really great blow-job artists. Every era has it’s art form. The nineteenth century, I know, was tops for the novel. I just do what I can not to gag too much. I know boyfriends get really excited when they can touch the soft flesh at the back of your throat. At these times I just try to breath through my nose and not throw up on their cock. I did vomit a little the other day but I kept right on sucking. Aside from blow jobs though, I’m through with being the perfect girlfriend, just through with it. Then if he’s sore with me, let him dump my ass. That will just give him more time to be a genius.

One good thing about being a woman is we haven’t too many examples yet of what genius looks like. It could be me. There is no ideal model for how my mind should be. For the men, it’s pretty clear. That’s the reason you see them trying to talk themselves up all the time. I laugh when they won’t say what they mean so the academics will study them forever. I’m thinking of you Mark Z., and you, Christian B. You just keep on peddling your phony-baloney genius crap, while I’m up giving blow jobs in heaven.

sheila heti / how should a person be

a couple days ago a bro dismissed me because i said i like one direction, which, i mean, one should often tell bros she likes one direction because like, the comedy of it all, the comedy of it all. the comedy of it all in that bro, when you were 14 and living off a diet of mountain dew and working around a schedule built on masturbating, i was lounging in the music aisle of Borders, reading about kurt cobain before you even really knew who he was; that $80+ i got every weekend from the neighbors i’d conned into paying me $40 / hour for tutoring their children, i was spending all that money on music and i owned the beatles discography before you’d even listened to the white album, when you were 17 and now masturbating exclusively to led zeppelin, i’d graduated from classic rock and right into the smiths and animal collective, and maybe, probably i was doing it to impress dashing young men like yourself, who would eventually grow up into 28 year old’s who say to their bro friends things like ‘but she’s not like other girls bro, she listens to the smiths’ (!!!); in college, while you masturbated to james joyce and ernest hemingway and jonathan franzen, i spent a year writing only about jimi hendrix, one time i dealt only with putting jimi hendrix’s performance of the star spangled banner in dialgoue with t.s. ellot’s the wasteland, and i got an A and my male professor said i should publish, so i giggled and scurried away.
i don’t know how to tell you this, but i do everything better than you, i do your profound male genius better than you, i learned and mastered your game before i graduated high school, and while you were sleeping, i beat you at it, but you’re still here, you’re still here, you and your $65 beanie and your ratty ass copy of Infinite Jest, which, i don’t think you’ve actually read, but it’s such a great accessory, congratulations. 
what i mean to say with all this, in relation to giving blow jobs up in heaven, and like, genius, is, i mean, ladies, l a d i e s, we’re never gonna be geniuses’s, not like that bro who’s so much better than me because he doesn’t listen to a silly old boy band, our minds will never have an ideal for how they should be, our experiences will never be standardized, bc men are too busy being genius’s to let that happen, a movie with an all male cast is for everyone, a movie with an all female cast is only for girls.
so really, all i can do is, you know, i’ll just keep wearing crop tops and listening to pop songs whose chorus’s are oh oh oh oh oh oh oh and na na na na na na, i’ll keep growing my nails and sharpening them until they become claws, i’ll wear sequin bras and stuff all my money inside them so when, on a first date, he offers to pay, i’ll insist no no, i’ve got this, and i’ll reach right in and pull out $60, then when he leans in for that kiss later, i’ll give him my cheek, giggle, and scurry away,