And in that moment, I swear we were a limited edition 1987 Schwinn Circuit with Columbia tubing, a Sante group in pearl, and Cinelli drops all purchased for $175.

(Source: jesuscocaine, via landanhoffman)

Earl is the most beatific kitty. He’s like St. Kitty of Assisi

Kitty nap room. You can’t see it but two are asleep on that dark blob in the corner next to the hand truck.

LOVE MY KITTY LIFE

That moment when you’re finally going to get out of bed and do things and this little asshole climbs up and rubs his face against you and then takes a nap right next to you and you’re like, “OH MY GOSSSHHH. I HAVE TO BE HERE FOR ALL OF THIS MOMENT”.

sighz 4 daze

A To Me Post

Man, recently I got this job at a bookstore down here in Dallas. It was a piece of cake getting it. I just showed up and they put me to work. Right now the bulk of work is unpacking boxes and boxes of books and putting them away on newly built shelves. It’s like a dream come true. That is, except when my fellow employees somehow forget the basic foundations of the English language, such as “how to alphabetize something”. They also seem to have trouble assigning correct genres to books; I for real found a copy of The Birth of Britain by Winston Fucking Churchill in the American History section. Next to that was a book called “Irish Royalty” or something like that. I don’t intend to suggest that the people that work with me are stupid or lazy or whatever. It’s a busy store and there are books and systems of organization flying everywhere. What I do intend to suggest is that when I find books out of their proper section or the alphabetization somehow completely mauled, it sends me into a frightmare and I just want to go home rather than deal with things being out of control. Or when I have to make a judgment call on an ambiguous book, like trying to decide if a techno-thriller that takes place during the Crimean War but only talks about the civilians who are only thinking about starting up a counter insurgence movement is a “thriller”, “war fiction”, “espionage”, “historical fiction”, or  just “throw it in the garbage, it doesn’t fit anywhere”. I had an epistemological crisis over whether to classify a book called Women in the Klan (awesome.) as “american history” or “women’s studies” because the cover said, “The 1920’s, Racism, and Gender Studies”. I know what I should be saying to myself, “It’s stupid to get so excited and distraught over the minutiae of this particular task. Just do the work as best as you can and don’t worry so much.” But you guts, I can’t. There are clear and rigid systems at work! Defining and outlining the agenda, functionality, and actual human experience! The difference between placing the “linguistics” section within the main room next to “dictionaries” and “grammar” instead of placing it in the back room next to “french”, “spanish”, and “other languages” is monumental! I’m stunned and paralyzed by the complex structural interplay. Especially since I have no way to grasp it and order it myself, to make sense of it myself and define the underlying structures; to model, in effect, the bookstore in my own image.

At least, that’s what I was feeling when I first started working. But recently I have been given the job of unpacking the texts and assigning them into genres. I spent two hours today making a framework for storage and assignation in the storeroom. It was an exciting and stimulating job, ordering space and content into place; snapping rules and limits into straight, solid,  sometimes unexplainable lines.

I’ve been depressed for months, somewhere deep in the back of my mind, about all of my books being packed up in boxes, separated into different states and storage units without form or contextual definition. I’ve always craved a kind of control over my personal library, which over the years has stretched out of control, gotten hairy and wild like hedera helix on window sills. It’s a blessing to have a job so soothing and satisfying. This has been a flowery update on my life.

youngmegadethite:

Anyone know where we can score some cigarettes?

(Source: efstein)

Hey y’all, I’m gonna morm hardcore for a few years soon, so here is a blog about it.

Woody Guthrie’s New Years Rulins, 1942

You guts, Polyphonic Spree is playing a show on New Year’s Eve. I briefly considered going because I am 21 years old and because I should be out doing fun things and if I am not out doing fun things then people will think I’m a total square. Then I realized that social situations like this make me really, REALLY nervous and it sounds like such a hassle and it’s expensive plus that’s the night people will be driving drunk and it’s all the way at the House of Blues and I’d rather just hang out by myself or with my brother and his fiance and if people ask I can tell them I did something really cool, maybe I’ll even lie about going to see the Polyphonic Spree ha ha ha, wouldn’t I be cool then?

The point is, I realized I wouldn’t go when one of my reasons for going was so I didn’t look like a loser for not going. The picture, above, is proof that I can easily redeem myself from looking like a total loser with anxiety problems by masking my sad, doughy emotional weaknessES with hilarioUS OH NO THE CAPS LOCK IS BACK ON HOW DO I STOP THIS OH MAN I AM HACKED OFF NOT AGAIN.

(Source: threewordphrase, via girlsdonotpoop)

TELL ME SHE IS NOT RON SWANSON. I DARE YOU.

This cat looks like Ron Swanson and I can’t get a decent photo of her because she refused to mug for the camera. But trust me when I say this: this cat is Ron Swanson and there’s nothing you can do to change that.

KITTIE KRISTMAS