is it only me or is it really overwhelming to listen to an album in one go? like i am ready to die convincing artists to release one song every day because it's going to be so much better that way
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As I walk down the halls, I am reminded that a chapter of my life is over. The chatter of my peers ring in my ears as my eyes scan the blank walls that were once filled with artwork. My professor said “don’t be a stranger.” I walk out of my class and put on my headphones. Scott Street by Phoebe Bridgers is the first song that plays when I shuffle my playlist. I try to hold back my tears as the outro plays. Anyway, don’t be a stranger, Anyway, don’t be a stranger. Don’t be a stranger.
I walk into my studio and start ripping the art off the walls. The last one left says “don’t forget to take care of yourself.” It feels intentional, a warning, a prelude, something that means something. Maybe I just search for meaning in every little thing. What if it doesn’t mean anything? What if it means something?
I’m sitting in my last class biting back the tears that threaten to fall. I wish I could enjoy my final class of sophomore year instead of wiping away tears and hoping no one notices. My chest aches, I wish I could take it out and stomp on it. Maybe it’ll become numb to the pain. The lump in my throat won’t go away.
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my family is fucking addicted to macgyvering and it's becoming a problem. every time something in this house breaks, instead of doing the sensible thing of replacing it or calling someone qualified to fix it, we all group around the offending object with a manic look in our eyes and everyone gets a try at fixing it while being cheered on or ridiculed by the rest.
it's a beautiful bonding activity, but the "creative" fixes have turned our house into a quasihaunted escape room like contraption where everything works, but only in the wonkiest of ways. you need a huge block of iron to turn on the stove. the oven only works if a specific clock is plugged in. the bread machine has a huge wood block just stapled to it that has become foundational to its function. sometimes when you use the toaster the doorbell rings. and that's just the kitchen.
it's all fun and games until you have guests over and you have to lay out the rules of the house like it's a fucking board game. welcome to the beautiful guest room. don't pull out the couch yourself you need a screwdriver for that, and that metal rod makes the lamp work so don't move it. it also made me a terrifying roommate in college, because it makes me think i can fix anything with enough hubris and a drill. you want to call the landlord about a leaky faucet? as if. one time my dad made me install a new power socket because we ran our of extension cords
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in honour of wolvie returning to the big screen here's a fond childhood memory
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I must sleep. Sleep is the mind-healer. Sleep is the big-life that brings total ability to fucking do anything. I will face my bed. I will permit the blankie to pass over me and snores to pass through me. And when sleep has gone past I will turn the outer eye to greet the new morning. When the sleep has gone there will be everything. Energy and will to live will remain.
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interaction i have with shocking regularity is when someone’s complaining abt someone they know and theyre like “ughh they’re 21 and dont have a job and refuse to learn to drive” and then they remember who they’re talking to (me. 21 cant work cant drive) and go like
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- i'm italian and this is hurting me
- it's from a chicago dungeon
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"you will look for themes and motifs in media that isn't worth the effort" i will look for themes and motifs in the dirt. on the ground.
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"youve already written that trope" yesss. i like it a lots. i will be writing it again. 1000 stories of the same trope over and over again for ten million years
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