Some days it’s really good to remember the Minneapolis Bike Cops for Kids page exists.

Convictions are prisons.
- Nietzsche (via chrissystockton)
To Women Who Want a Man Who is ‘Stable”

You will never get to a place in life where bad things don’t happen to you.

Cutesy Tumblr Story

One day I was on a trip to New York and I was walking down a random hallway of an office building in Williamsburg and some guy stops me and says “are you philolzophy?”

And I said yes and the guy was printedinternet and we have followed each other for a long time but we have never talked or anything. We are just a Tumblr Success Story.

When People Asked Me If I'm Going To Be Embarrassed About What I Wrote On The Internet


I don’t know. Probably.

But um, I’ve been writing things on the internet since the late 90s via LiveJournal and Tumblr and now Thought Catalog. The only thing I have published in an irl book is a fiction story about a guy who emailed me a photo of his dick. Of course it’s embarrassing to look back and read things you wrote five years ago but that’s the whole point of doing it. 

Writing helps you grow as a person because it’s like taking your brain outside of your head and in front of your face so you can examine your thoughts. It’s cathartic to write stuff out and especially by putting it online where people can comment and respond to it — you learn a lot faster than you would otherwise. 

I sincerely hope that I am embarrassed by what I am writing. If I look back in 5-10 years and think “wow! i was so smart! I made all correct decisions! my writing is very impressive!” it would be fucking bleak as hell. It would mean I haven’t grown or changed at all in those 5-10 years. And that I’m probably the kind of person who lies to themselves. 

Being embarrassed about your past is the price you pay for living your life. I’m okay with that because I have a rule that I would rather learn something than be precious about it and avoid embarrassment. I don’t care about being embarrassed as much as I care about learning and growing. 

And if it’s public humiliation — if I can’t get a job because the internet bubble has (again) burst and the kind of content that I’m good at writing isn’t in demand anymore. Well, I will find something else to do. But I can’t live my life in the present based on what I think the future is going to be like and how I can best protect it. 

No… that’s not me. I need to embrace everything I do. I think if you are lucky enough to have an intuition that is loud enough that you can figure out what it is saying you should just do that. And when it ends, you do the next thing it tells you to do. And it always works out.

Like Rilke said:

"You, my own deep soul. Trust me, I will not betray you."

Your body needs to be held and to hold, to be touched and to touch. None of these needs is to be despised, denied, or repressed.
- Henri Nouwen  (via marcelaellaola)

(Source: misswallflower)

not technically a question but, I'm just shocked at how much I have taken in from your page in the last hour of browsing. I like it.

tysm <3 <3 <3 

The Best Meal I’ve Ever Eaten

We were young. That is what made it so good.

I was living in southern Oregon at the time and we’d gone to San Francisco for a long weekend. The whole fall my friend Shayla and I had been living in a cabin, up the mountain half an hour from town. And we didn’t have cars. Or internet.

Shayla was a smoker and we weren’t allowed to smoke on our porch or near the cabin because the fire risk is so high and no one could afford fire insurance. So, each night we’d risk death walking in the pitch dark (or with a mag light, if we remembered) on a path that wound around a gritty mill pond to a block of cement where smoking was allowed. This was the best time of day. Did you know that you can see more stars on top of a mountain than you can anywhere else? That had never occurred to me before though it seems really obvious now.

Before San Francisco we’d gone backpacking. I’d learned how to fly fish for the occasion. High up in a mountain eleven hours by car away from the one I was living on, we ate fish we’d caught that day and cooked over a fire. You can pack spray butter and pepper, and it’s pretty good but you have to be a nazi about picking the bones out of your mouth. We’d gone car camping in Brookings, on the coast. I slept on the beach one of those nights. Nothing looks like a beach does under the moonlight. The girls snuck off around a cliff from the boys. We held hands in a circle naked in the water for awhile. Everyone else went home and Brian and Kim and I spent the night talking  and curled into our sleeping bags on the sand. The water sounded nice all night.

San Francisco was a break from our crunchy granola season. We met people there who actually weren’t in the middle of reading The Brother’s Karamosov (literally everyone else we knew). We met boys in the park one night in Ashland but the only books we could get them to talk about were The Hardy Boys.

In San Francisco we wanted to go to a fancy dinner because neither Shayla nor I had ever been to one apart from with our families, and because it was just so different than what we had been doing. We had to shave our legs for the occasion. We weren’t fancy people at the moment, but we were dinner people at the moment. All our occasions back on the mountain were dinners we had to get rides into town to prepare for. This time we wouldn’t have to cook.

We’d been walking around the city for a few days at that point. We found the perfect place on top of a hill in little italy. We spent forever at a table outside eating our meal. Men kept coming up to talk to us, which was weird (our culture and age made this novel). The best part was the espresso. And the conversation. There are some times when you are young that you are very aware of your life stretching out in front of you and this was one of them. We talked about coming back to live there after we graduated college.

Our bill was $50, which was the most we’d ever paid for a meal out.

We had plans later that trip to have a bonding experience with Paul and Karson and we asked our waiter what we should do that we would never forget and he told us some places. We walked home and found some friends and went down to the pier to smoke. After everyone had gone to bed that night I went outside again and cried because I was so happy. 

List Of Mega Shiteaters, Presented Without Comment

1. C.S. Lewis

2. George W. Bush (HW is fine by me)

3. Jonathan Cheban

4. Kim Kardashian 

5. Ayn Rand

6. Perez Hilton

7. Kant

How a Miscarriage Feels

I didn’t know until I knew, thank god for that. It’s impossible to miss something if you didn’t know it was yours until it wasn’t any more. And it’s easier to feel sorry for yourself than it is to mourn another.

And it’s easier to lose a game you weren’t trying to win. To fail an exam you weren’t allowed to prepare for. To receive empirical proof that you are only half a woman when all you aspired to be was half in the first place.

Having a miscarriage makes a liar out of you. To those who can see the external symptoms, who are affected by your physical and mental absence, you can explain it as bad PMS, bad cramps, bad luck. The experience is draining enough to want to avoid the added shame and bias of those who can’t understand why you’re so upset by something that was an accident in the first place. Fate spared you the consequences of your mistake. Aren’t you happy?

And then even still, most of the symptoms are on the inside, are private. And disgusting, frankly; a poetic foil to how beautiful it ought to be if only your body didn’t fuck it all up. A fitful night of sleep spent feeling like you’re soon to wake up to the worst case of diarrhea you’ve ever had, because your dumb brain doesn’t know any better how to interpret what’s taken over your body. A morning that’s normal for the ninety seconds you’re on your feet before you realize what’s happening, before you even have time to find your glasses, before you look at your phone, before you turn on the radio. 

It falls out of you without warning, for lack of a better way to describe it. Like the woosh! when you drop from the height of a rollercoaster before your brain is ready to admit you aren’t about to die the most exhilarating death imaginable. And just like that it’s gone, it’s out. It’s all done before you knew it. You’re numb and scrubbing the tile in fix-it mode without respect for or acknowledgment of the weight of your actions, because you just need it to go away.

Having a miscarriage makes you sick as shit because you will throw up and lose a lot of blood and it will take a laughably long time to get it over with, after all. But nobody wants to hear about that, do they? And you’ll keep describing it euphemistically, just like I have, because nobody wants to hear the ugly side of it.

Which you understand, actually. You hardly use the word yourself.

People always talk about how their friends’ reactions to crises indicate the value of said friendship. I would argue that the opposite is truer still; who you tell is who you trust. You might be surprised.

Me? It’s been five months. Don’t worry; I’m empty now in every sense of the word.