gitoffdabus
we've already arrived
so stop squirming
58 posts
Don't wanna be here? Send us removal request.
Last Seen Blogs
Audio
cupcake making motivation
0 notes
Audio
makes me wanna pole dancing and i dont even know how
0 notes
Audio
makes me wanna be lonelier
6 notes
·
View notes
Text
"Helpful tip: when you are in love, try not to have sex with other people that you don’t love. It’s sort of unnecessary."
http://i-d.vice.com/en_gb/read/think-pieces/4183/a-girls-guide-to-growing-up-by-somebody-with-absolutely-no-experience
0 notes
Photo
lidz just $1 at seria. get em fresh n sticky. (at dollarama 日本)
0 notes
Text
Dear ------,
I don't know what your work day is like. No doubt longer than mine, I spend 45 hours a week biking and sitting and talking for ------ High School.
People don't really talk deeply about work unless they are with people from work. Shallow questions of "How is work going?" only touch the surface of my 45 hour existence and your ? one.
Sometimes I wish everyone had pockets deep enough to carry people into the small details of their lives.
I bike past the same big-headed man wearing the same white shirt in front of the same Mini Cooper parking lot every morning.
I turn the corner and pass the same tall fat lazy man holding a leash to his small skinny lazy Chihuahua.
I take a picture of the same rice field.
Who do I tell these things to?
Conversations don't open up for such details.
.
.
I spend most days by myself because it is easier. I am part of the school, but I'm not with the rhythm of the language, homerooms, club obligations. I fit in because a space has been made for me here where I am allowed to stand out.
I work quietly and watch people speak and eat and move. I notice tensions between people - romances and enemies. I observe them like I would fish in a tank.
Except. I get to be inside the fish tank.
Except. This fish tank is my life.
Maybe from ------, you know I feel. It is not a bad feeling because I'm productive, and my school likes me, and most of the time I like to be alone anyways.
Maybe you immersed yourself better. English speakers have a bad habit of forcing people to bend to their language. Here, lots of Japanese people want to speak English.
I wonder if life would still feel like a fish tank if I learned Japanese better. It probably would be different. I want to get better. I think it every day.
If I spoke Japanese though, I wonder if I would miss the fish tank. It's so much easier to fill someone up with your life silently, through observations, than to get mixed up in words. Words lie. Words take so long to say.
Human sized pockets would be so useful.
Think of the kinds of vacations you could go on. Imagine being in Kim Jong-Il's pocket or Einstein's pocket or Van Gogh's pocket. Think of how different friends would be - so much less talking and so much more seeing.
Sometimes I meet people and want to know who they are and who they will become and what strangers they pass every day, but there is hardly ever enough time or space to learn these things.
You are one of these people. I hardly know you but I want to be pocket friends.
I'm not sure why I find you intriguing exactly. You aren't normal. It's hard to be independent in this country, in this series of islands, in this sea of working machines.
You were born and raised here but somehow you stand out.
What small things did you do and see every day to become this way?
How did you learn about the fish tank when you were born into it?
Maybe you don't even know. I want to know.
I'll be visiting --- sometime in the middle of ----.
If you have time, let's pretend pocket.
-O
0 notes
Text
part two
It's a nice change, this. To be writing about falling in love rather than working so hard to fall out of it. In or out, out or in, love has a gravitational pull, sucking you. Sink hole, this love is. Somehow breathless despite its heaviness and fresh despite an uncertain depth; I'm up to my knees before I realize this is my heart's new home.
I don't know your birthday yet.
I don't know if you like coffee or movies.
I don't know if night is better for you than mornings.
I don't know what bothers you about me nor me about you.
You are my first foreign language to love, 日本人男性。
.
.
How can I tell you this?
Communication stretches silently, dry tongues in the sun. We watch purses carried, plates scraped. We clear our throats. We feel damp wind on our faces, and listen to car door slams and laughing. It's like we're talking because we know we're both here to share this. I feel we're already said everything and now we are still sitting here.
What now? I don't have a favourite colour or a favourite movie. The questions we can ask one another are crude tools; shovels to sift grains of sand. Our words are too clunky to find what's between them.
Your favourite colours change by season? How interesting. I don't think about colours like that but yes, I like yellow in spring too.
.
.
What do you really think about?
Parched, we position our fingers and mouths carefully on each other's shoulders and hands and eyelids. Like palms on the nape of a newborn may my touch be soft enough to say what I can't tell you.
Already barebones in space, in this deep Space because I don't know how to be otherwise.
1 note
·
View note
Text
part one
I'm lovesick.
Fatigue behind the eyes, heaviness to the forehead. Memory is linked to soft stomach butterflies, bare chests, eye kissing, mouth corners, cheek stubble.
Love, making love, trying to holding the person in replication to how you feel for them is a hard task. Slow bodies locked together occasionally interrupted by soft groans and squeezes.
.
.
How do you articulate fresh passion?
Lovesickness freezes time into a loop tape, a photo carousel of moments that one must fight not to get lost in. I could sit here in the sun all day thinking about yesterday.
I could soak myself in this.
1 note
·
View note
Text
I'm here at the Mercedes Benz dealership in the cold. In the medianed, lawned, highway island of Gatineau.
White rectangle tiles reflect the underbellies of cars. Pipe six-packs crooked down the middle. Room is faux industrial: waxed and leather and glass and spacious.
I could cry. who knows why. I sit silently in humidified air.
Canada Post man walks past me to reception and his boots squeak on the tiles. He holds a hand of letters, which he sets right down. He walks back out. No words he says.
He does this every day maybe. A 20-pace walk into a big room of cars and glass and silence. He gives and goes with the only other rubber around here being car feet. His boots spill brown wet accidents on the white tiles but at least he has some purpose. Purpose enough to walk in confidently while still knowing someone will clean up after him as soon as he crosses the parking lot.
This rubber squeaking, this brief encounter, this is part of your life, mister postman.
I could cry out from happiness to see you boot squeak in here to all this car shine so regularly that routine may have stripped of you of reminders that you are breathing.
I see it all from behind the fake pot of flowers where I practice straight posture on a sofa with white leather.
The pot's so big and the couch's so low.
I cry a little and no one notices.
0 notes