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Secretary - Steven Shainberg (2002)

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Horror is like the only genre left where anything good or original is happening because they're historically lower budget with almost guaranteed high returns even if the movie ends up being just okay at best so writers and directors and editors are allowed to experiment and actually be creative which is what audiences want. Yet big studios are still bleeding themselves dry for $100+ million productions no one's showing up to and aren't even good! Horror's the only thing standing between us and the death of cinema. And I live by that.

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He drinks a whisky drink (action) he drinks a vodka drink (bonus action) he drinks a lager drink (hasted action) he drinks a cider drink (action surge)

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inspired by 'my own private idaho'

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Joy Sullivan, “Before”, Instructions for Traveling West

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it's been one of those weeks pass me the thinness of my life quote

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I have a small unimpressive pathetic and lonely life but i am happy sometimes and i love to look at flowers and trees so it's okay

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beautiful women will be like “i baked a cake” and you will say “oh ? what flavour is it” and they say well its a honey rosewater apricot pistachio cardamom vanilla fig jam earl grey poppyseed orange blossom extra virgin olive oil chiffon sponge soaked in raspberry elderflower champagne lipgloss pomegranate matcha ginger blueberry cherry blossom magnolia petal almond passionfruit persimmon syrup with whipped amalfi lemon limoncello ricotta goats cheese honeycomb black pepper bergamot lemon thyme lemon balm rosemary chantilly whipped cream cream cheese feta cheese italian meringue frosting . like ok. i want to spend the rest of my afternoons walking around inside your beautiful mind like a garden

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Situations where you exhibited cruelty?

I don’t know if it would be cruelty, but anger, rage, certain desires that would have never exhibited in my brother. There was a moment when I was 15 — I’ve been trying to articulate this for so long, and your question is putting me down the slippery slope. I’ve been trying to articulate it, because it’s important, but I’ve been ashamed. People ask me, why did you become a writer? I give the answer that makes sense: I went to Pace University, I tried business school because I wanted to help my mother. I couldn’t do it, and I went to Brooklyn College and to an English department, and then I became a writer. That’s not untrue, although I don’t know if it’s honest, and your question is now bringing me to this idea of cruelty and goodness. There was this one event when I was 15 that I think altered the course of my life, although at that time it was not an epiphanic moment. But the desire to be a writer probably started with the desire to commit myself to understanding suffering. What was the moment?

I’m trying to be eloquent. I don’t know if I will be. I’ll say it first, then describe it. When I was 15, I decided to kill somebody. Oh, my God.

I didn’t do it. Ah, my God. [Long pause.] I was working on the tobacco farm, and I rode my bike every day. It was five miles out. You wake up at 6 in the morning. I rode my bike, and I went to work mostly with migrant farmers. You’d get paid under the table, and if you show up every day, you get a $1,000 bonus at the end of the season. It was this hot July evening. I was in my room and I look out the window and see that someone has stolen my bike. It was someone I knew in our neighborhood. He was a drug dealer. You would put your bike outside on the stoop when you’re running in and out, and this guy was known to grab your bike, and there’s nothing you could do about it. But I snapped that day. I saw him, and I was so angry, because I knew: I’m not going to get this back, I’m going to lose my $1,000. For context: My mom made $13,000. I go outside and say, “Give me back my bike.” And essentially he said, “Eff off.” I lost it. I went across the street to my friend Big Joe’s house. I knocked on his window. I remember putting both of my hands on the windowsill. I have no shirt on. I’m sweating, I’m so angry, and I said, “Please let me borrow your gun.” [Vuong begins to cry.] I’m so sorry. Can I give you a hug? [Vuong and I embrace.] I appreciate that you’re being honest, but if it’s too much, we can stop. OK?

I think what I’m trying to get at is that I didn’t become an author to have a photo in the back of a book. Writing became a medium for me to try to understand what goodness is. Because when I was begging my friend, “Please give me your gun,” he said: “Ocean, I’m not going to do that. You need to go home.” What was so touching to me is that I was not responsible for that. Someone else’s better sense saved me.

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self indulgence isn’t self respect, giving yourself every unhealthy thing you want isn’t self respect, babying yourself and having no deadlines or hard and fast rules for how to live would not be how u treat someone whose intelligence and work ethic you respect …….you have to act out of respect for your Self first and foremost

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learning that people want you in their lives is a skill you can develop if it does not come naturally

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everyone hates my hermit girl swag

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Valentines gift for my girlfriend

Please don’t repost on other platforms!

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via sandw1tchshop

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obsessed with mass market paperbacks. their pleasing rectangular proportions. how they fit badly in a hoodie pocket so you can drag them around everywhere with you like a temporary little buddy. the way they fit in your hand because they're MADE for human hands and not as bookshelf decoration. the way the pages feel when you riffle them gently with your thumb. How pristine and crisp they look when you get them and how creased and folded they look when you're done, even if you try to be nice to them. how that wear is okay, how that's correct actually, because they're made with the philosophy that books aren't meant to be PRETTY, they're meant to be read. that little ripple new ones get on the left side from where you hold them when you're reading, the way the ripple only goes as far as you've read, because u change stories by reading as they are changing you. how you can find thousands of these creased and folded and loved little dudes in every thrift store and used book shop and neighborhood library and you can instantly see the ones that someone carried around in a backpack for weeks or read to pieces or gave up on halfway through because they wear being read like fresh snow wears footprints. I love these poorly made, subpar little rectangles so much. truly the people's books.

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