“I don’t know about you, but I can’t wait to get my hands on some fucking gourds and arrange them in a horn-shaped basket on my dining room table. That shit is going to look so seasonal. I’m about to head up to the attic right now to find that wicker fucker, dust it off, and jam it with an insanely ornate assortment of shellacked vegetables. When my guests come over it’s gonna be like, BLAMMO! Check out my shellacked decorative vegetables, assholes. Guess what season it is—fucking fall. There’s a nip in the air and my house is full of mutant fucking squash.”—The opener of Colin Nissan’s “It’s Decorative Gourd Season, Motherfuckers” for McSweeney’s. Make sure to read the rest. (via lifeserial)
before I’d even scrolled down to the snot bubbles. I thought ‘oh what an awesome glasses shot _scroll_ ooooohhh my’. But you know what? I did not take the heart away, no no. Because you have to love ALL parts of a person, people. All parts, even the snotty parts. ESPECIALLY the snotty parts.
“We are going to die, and that makes us the lucky ones. Most people are never going to die because they are never going to be born. The potential people who could have been here in my place but who will in fact never see the light of day outnumber the sand grains of Arabia. Certainly those unborn ghosts include greater poets than Keats, scientists greater than Newton. We know this because the set of possible people allowed by our DNA so massively exceeds the set of actual people. In the teeth of these stupefying odds it is you and I, in our ordinariness, that are here.”—Richard Dawkins (via livejamie).
Days have colors. There are gray Tuesdays, those Tuesdays when you wake up in the middle of a cement block, as if you’ve got to be chiseled out before you can even get out of bed, into the shower or to the store. There are blue Sundays, those that are spent lying on a sofa, or walking around town without a plan, directionless, no idea what to do, while you miss something of your whole heart, but you’ve no idea what exactly it might be, because those Sundays don’t want to give away any answers, they just want to color everything and make the day indolent and lazy and blue. And there are red Fridays, Fridays so red they last all night. They last way into Saturday morning, into the late morning and the evening, all the way into the night. There are Fridays so red and shining that they last through Saturday night and Sunday morning, in the same clothes, the same sneakers, in some apartment where you wake up lying on some sofa or other, or, if you’ve been really good, in a bed, with a naked princess by your side. Those that only exist when you’re young, and you’ll die young, and you’ve put god knows what into your system.
This Thursday was yellow. Yellow like an old polaroid. Yellow like an old running jacket you only use inside your apartment, but that you used to use all the time.
Un di, felice, eterea, Mi balenaste innante, E da quel di tremante Vissi d’ignoto amor. Di quell’amor ch’e palpito Dell’universo, Dell’universo intero, Misterioso, Misterioso altero, Croce e, Croce e delizia Croce e delizia, delizia al cor. Misterioso, Misterioso altero, Croce e delizia al cor. Croce e delizia al cor. Delizia, delizia al cor. Delizia, delizia al cor. Croce e delizia, delizia al cor Croce e delizia al cor.
One day, you, happy, ethereal, appeared in front of me, and ever since, trembling, I lived from unknown love. That love that’s the pulse of the universe, of the whole universe, Mysterious, mysterious and proud, torture and delight to the heart.