thing that might seem like a good idea at the time but is in fact a terrible, terrible idea: taking a class called caribbean diasporic literature (every book will be entirely beautiful but also p much 100% about trauma)

thing that seems like a terrible idea at the time and is in fact a terrible, terrible idea: writing your paper for that class on trauma, distance, and dissociation the same week you get told you have PTSD because you are experiencing dissociative episodes

nuditea:

mmiikkeezz:

"Oh man… remember Instagram?" - me in ten years.

me in ten years, in response: “of course i do. we all do. how could you say that? how could you be so insensitive? you know that we’re here now because of what instagram did. what was our home is now a crater because of instagram. it turned the world to soot and ash and saltwater and you have the GALL to bring it up so casually? like it’s inconsequential? i know we live in a time of darkness and chaos, but you’ve let it turn you into a monster. i can’t do this anymore. they say there’s a safe haven a couple hundred miles south of here— they say there’s fertile soil there somehow. i’m leaving tonight. alone.” then i pick up the cat and walk out. also i have a cyborg arm and a cool mysterious scar on my cheek

nuditea:

mmiikkeezz:

"Oh man… remember Instagram?" - me in ten years.

me in ten years, in response: “of course i do. we all do. how could you say that? how could you be so insensitive? you know that we’re here now because of what instagram did. what was our home is now a crater because of instagram. it turned the world to soot and ash and saltwater and you have the GALL to bring it up so casually? like it’s inconsequential? i know we live in a time of darkness and chaos, but you’ve let it turn you into a monster. i can’t do this anymore. they say there’s a safe haven a couple hundred miles south of here— they say there’s fertile soil there somehow. i’m leaving tonight. alone.” then i pick up the cat and walk out. also i have a cyborg arm and a cool mysterious scar on my cheek

(Source: twitter.com, via janicekirk)

"However, I cannot escape myself, and being a narrator who also existed on the periphery of the events, I am bound to be present."

— Shani Mootoo, The Cereus Blooms at Night (pg. 3)

hahahhah whoops

hahahhah whoops

watching television instead of just tv shows on netflix/hulu/less legal sources is the fucking worst, I have seen two commercials and they were both gross, one of them was a business commercial that featured a lot of men running around and women only appearing as secretaries and the other one was for some stupid man deodorant that apparently, if you use it, will not only make the weather forecast go from rainy to sunny, but will also make the weather reporter go from a woman in a boring suit :( to a woman in a bikini!! :D like I know none of this is new but UGH JUST COOL IT PATRIARCHY, you’ve been working so hard, you deserve a vacation, here’s a one-way ticket to the void

onlysunscreen:

so far we have two votes for stars and two votes for medea but the one about metaphors has the most likes so y’all are being v confusing

(by which I mean ty friends you are all v nice and lovely)

so far we have two votes for stars and two votes for medea but the one about metaphors has the most likes so y’all are being v confusing

piercingniall said: i love you and your blogging but i swear if you're still around next year because you didn't write your goddamn thesis i will delete your tumblr

shoutouts to zakstagram for this beautiful and very motivational ask from a few months ago, love you too zak xoxo

Tags: hearts

fralusans-ana-marein said: of these four I think this one is best. also: do you want little nitpicky edits?

thanks!! / yeah sure, if you wanna

I remember, vaguely, when I could look at a thing and think of it as just, you know, a thing. Roses were roses, snowflakes were snowflakes, and a pure-white bird taking flight into the sunset at the exact moment that I found a post-graduation job was weirdly coincidental, definitely, but nothing to get philosophical about.

Now though. Now I am A Writer. Worse still, I am A Reader of other Writers, and other Writers sure do love their metaphors. It wears you down after a while, all those figurative flourishes. Gets to the point where, if you aren’t going poetic about a cloud or a mountain every now and then, you start feeling a little left out.

I started with a simile. Those feel safe enough. I wasn’t saying that my eccentric professor is a baboon, just that he’s like one, and anyone could see they share certain similarities. A screeching laugh, for example, and a tendency towards nit-picking.

But simile is like a gateway drug: just a taste and you’re hungry for more. What could it hurt, I thought, I’ll just try it once. So naive. Metaphor is a helluva drug. It turns one thing into another with just a few words! The power was at my fingertips! I was a magician, a wizard — no, I was a goddamn god.

The power corrupted, as power tends to do, and now I find myself peppering my prose with the needless and nonsensical. Is the sky actually a turtle? Who cares! Is loneliness really a banana? It is if I say so! I laugh maniacally from my desk, a Lady Macbeth with fingers stained in bloody ink.

People shake their heads sadly and speak in hushed voices. That poor soul, they say. Another one lost (and here they shudder) to the terrible scourge of metaphor.