accidental flares of love burst through the atmosphere

The trailer park boys, the prom curls

When I'm happy I find it harder to write something real. Resisting the urge to write about fluff is hard but important; it's nice every once in a while, but no one gives a fuck unless you're being really freakishly honest with the rest of the world. I've been trying to do that lately. Especially here. Because when the rest of the world is so annoyingly Network-Televisioned, I want people to be able to come here for a breath of fresh air. I'd like to think that my mind has recently become a gigantic technicolor tumor with teeth. Every thought that I have seems to have some bite to it. I've never been one for feeling average, boring feelings with average, boring people. Lately it seems especially important that everyone I surround myself with is unfailingly brilliant and fascinating in their own way. Cannot be bothered to make small talk (not that I'm ever any good at that). Cannot be bothered to answer any conversation that begins with "hey what's up." Cannot be bothered to waste a single breath or a single thought on anything that I'm not terribly interested in.

(Hanna Renae Scott, feeling feelings since January 2013)

Since all of my weekends are ridiculous lately, I won't write about how ridiculous this particular weekend was. But I WILL post some pictures (bummed I didn't take any at the strip club). Some from last week too, because I forgot to do that. Except...shit, I can't end this post without mentioning that Lily drank moonshine on Friday night. Lillyyyy Gaattiiiiccccaaaaa. Drank moonshine. From a communal bottle.


End, indeed.

I'm leaving you with this song, because I've been listening to it nonstop lately.


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The pure bliss, the camera, the delightful coming-of-age story

The jungle upbringing, the long strange trip