objectivelydisordered

[objectivelydisordered]

[objectivelydisordered]

[objectivelydisordered]

Fuck.

[objectivelydisordered]

Instinct vs decorum as the plight of man

[objectivelydisordered]

[objectivelydisordered]

[objectivelydisordered]

Backstage at Alexander McQueen: Spring/Summer (2008)

[objectivelydisordered]

Optimization pharmacy

Just one swallow

Good as new

Just one swallow

Red or blue

Just one more and then another

Don’t worry it’s good for you

Whatever you desire can be yours

If you just open up our doors

We hold the cure for your defects

Oh, but what about side effects?

Could be anything really, but don’t fret

We have something else for that you can bet

Just step right up for your better YOU

We take cash, credit, and souls too!

[objectivelydisordered]

Listening to stereolab and thinking about the pasttttt

Oh bittersweet nostalgia…

[objectivelydisordered]

Passion is indifference is passion

[objectivelydisordered]

[objectivelydisordered]

[objectivelydisordered]

[objectivelydisordered]

I’ve been thinking about legacy…

There are things that I think and experience and love that will never be known by anyone but me.

I have a certain attachment to this life, this mind, this body. And no one will ever know me in the sense that I know myself.

Maybe that’s another reason people like to believe in God, so that their secret inner world doesn’t go unnoticed, fading into irrelevance with the last breath.

When I was younger I thought about the fear of death as a fear of the moment itself. The pain or panic or regret that would live inside of it. But now I think the scarier thing is the realization that one day nothing that I’ve ever done will matter.

[objectivelydisordered]

How do you express rage? And I mean express in the sense of expressing a pimple or a sore, squeezing and squeezing until no pus remains. With sadness you can cry until you’re too tired to cry anymore, and at least then you feel like you’ve released something. But rage just builds up, festers. I fantasize about outlets with increasingly deranged effects. Should I scream at God until my voice is sore? Should I slice at my arms until pinpricks trickle out? Should I resect a piece of my tongue and send it to her; a useless, flagellate sacrifice? This is definitely the emotion I feel the least capable and qualified to hold. Then why for the last year have I been unable to shake it?

-thoughts on expression

[objectivelydisordered]

“The last time of anything has the poignancy of death itself.”

-A Tree Grows in Brooklyn by Betty Smith