I'm Molly. These are things I like and some thoughts on stuff.
1. There will be several days that you daydream about stepping in front of a city bus. Don’t. It will not be beautiful. It will not be brave. It will be selfish. It will be broken. Your mother will cry.
2. Don’t write for him. Write for you. Write for others like you. Write so the girl that thinks about stepping in front of public transportation doesn’t. Don’t be selfish.
3. When you will yourself to sleep and it doesn’t come- get up. It doesn’t matter that it’s 3 am. There will be other 3 am’s. Take a shower. Take two. Wash him out of your hair. Write a poem. Read the same book you’ve read 202 times again. The 203rd time might tell you something different. Don’t stay in bed- you will think about the bus again.
4. Don’t kiss him because he’s broken. Don’t kiss him because his laughter never reaches his eyes. Don’t try and fix him. Fix yourself first. Be selfish. He can’t save you.
5. Date yourself. Take yourself out to eat. Don’t share your popcorn at the movies with anyone. Stroll around an art museum alone. Fall in love with canvases. Fall in love with yourself.
6. Dress up and wear red lipstick and get drunk with your friends. They’re the ones that will pick you up. Don’t kiss him. Or him. Don’t fall asleep on strange couches with strange boys. When his hand slides up your dress walk away. Hit him. Don’t kiss him. He can’t save you.
7. Get another tattoo. Get five more. Get another hole in your ear. Don’t listen to your dad. You will still be able to get a job. Did you really want to be employed by someone like your father? Haven’t you had enough of judgmental old white men anyway? Get fuck you tattooed in tiny letters on your hip.
8. When you feel the yearning for a new city- start over. Take 200 bucks and a three suitcases. Work anywhere that will have you. Meet strange people and forget your name. Call yourself Ruby. No one will know the difference. Remember to call your mother. Don’t be selfish. Come home when you find yourself in the strangers and the small one bedroom apartment.
9. Don’t whisper evil things into your own ear. Other people are going to shout them at you. Be your own hero. Keep a sword on your key ring.
10. Don’t step in front of a city bus. It will not be beautiful. Live. Stay up all night with a boy that promises you everything and means it. Live. See shitty local bands with a friend. Wear a different band’s t-shirt. No one will care. Live. Have a baby girl with tiny fingers and tiny toes someday. Pour love into her until it’s overflowing. Live. Wake up. Staying in bed all day is not poetic.
Live. Live.
Live.
Do you hear that? It’s me. It’s your life. Wake up.
amazinggraces asked: You need to come into my life again. I miss you. More than I'd like to admit. Especially lately. Yes I'm needy but yes you love me.
I’m sure this is months old. But you should need me now too, haha. Happy 21st Lovely, I hope you have yet to pass out in any bathrooms and that you’ll see me sometime. We’ll go on a nice nature hike and have a fine crafted beer. Happy Burfday. <3
cravingthedays asked: I slept too much today and now I'm not tired. Also, I'll be in Asheville for the summer starting may 16th. I got a job at Kmart again
-Day off, Coffee, Some heinous espresso drink, plus I think I’m just too high. I dunno. - Avett Bros play in Knoxville either that day or the 18th or something similar, wanna look into that?
i don’t blog anymore. i can’t seem to find the time for this, or staying in contact, or art or for regular exercise. except for in spuratic spurts where i realize i haven’t been lending time to getting my thoughts straight or exercising my mind with something new or just giving myself some alone time. …and although i find social media to be frightening (i can make this statement solely based on how many times a day i look at instagram for no goddamned good reason) i think that there is something quite nice to my blog, i’ve never been a fast enough writer to journal, or i get critical of my handwriting or something odd like that; this plus the fact that sometimes i like to be able to share on a occasion a more introspective look on myself with a select group of people that are aware of my blog.
i just blogged about blogging. i apologize.
all that being said. maybe here, as in my odd tumblr account, is a good place to start as far as getting back into some sort of self. writing things down, getting them out of my head, seeing where i’ve been/where i’m going.
This might just be one of my favourite posts I have ever made on tumblr. All of us have secrets we wish to keep secret in order to protect ourselves from judgement or teasing but New Orleans-based artist Candy Chang found a way to give people the opportunity to share their thoughts without having to feel vulnerable to the outside world. Her installation, entitled Confessions, is a public art project that took place in The Cosmopolitan in Las Vegas, Nevada. For one month, Chang lived in Vegas and turned the P3 Studio Gallery into an interactive exhibit. Visitors could stop by, enter a booth, write whatever thoughts they wanted to share, and drop the confession into a box that mixed anonymously with other slips. Chang then took the anonymous slips and displayed them on the walls, painting selected responses in white against a larger red canvas background.
Throughout the exhibit, the shocking reality of a person’s true secrets are fascinating to read. Some of my favourites can be found in this photoset like:”I’ve been best man to two guys I used to sleep with who went on to marry women”; “My best friend beat a man to death when we were 15. Never told anyone. Still hurts.”
Ickle Me, Pickle Me, Tickle Me too, Went for a ride in a flying shoe, “Hooray!” “What fun!” “It’s time we flew!” Said Ickle Me, Pickle Me, Tickle Me too.
Ickle was captain, Pickle was crew, And Tickle served coffee and mulligan stew As higher And higher And higher they flew, Ickle Me, Pickle Me, Tickle Me too.
Ickle Me, Pickle Me, Tickle Me too, Over the sun and beyond the blue. “ Hold on!” “Stay in!” “I hope we do!” Cried Ickle Me, Pickle Me, Tickle Me too.
Ickle Me, Pickle Me, Tickle Me too Never returned to the world they knew, And nobody knows what’s happened to Dear Ickle Me, Pickle Me, Tickle Me too.
When I was little, my sister and I went to one of my mom’s christmas office parties. We ended up sitting at the bar with a Shel Silverstein book. The bartender ended up reading this poem to us. So it’s forever been my favorite.
