http://whateverwednesday.blogspot.sg

Love/Stores (Or, But You Will Get Used to It)

FIVE

"Lights up on a table at a café. A man and a woman sit across from each other. They sit in silence for a moment. They are not looking at one another. [Pause.] but it's an avoidance borne not of unfamiliarity but more of something like the opposite, something like too much familiarity, or uncertainty about what, exactly, at this moment, their familiarity means, and so there is awkwardness between them, a tension.
[Pause.]
There is clearly history here, is the point. The specifics or details or exact particulars are not of course entirely clear from this opening image, but that those particulars exist is unmistakable, and their importance, the weight, or, maybe more accurately, the almost unbearable meaning of the particulars hangs over the table. Like a dense fog. 

Which, while, okay, admittedly, being a pretty unremarkable not to say obvious simile to choose is on the either hand not an inappropriate one because what's most painful here, for both of them, is their inability to see inside each other, to know for sure whether all or even any of the aforementioned particulars which are of such importance to each of them individually are of some or even any importance to the person across the table, if they even care. Such that he might be thinking, "I remember the time we went for breakfast near my place and I was upset," This, just to interject into his thought, this being shortly after it all started, the beginning of what is now their shared history, a history which ended, like nearly all such histories, in a series of ambiguous encounters of entirely unclear parameters that became increasingly uncomfortable until they absolutely need to stop, rendering their story, such as it is, one of those with a beginning, and then basically no middle, and then an ending, followed by a lengthy silence, which is, presumably at this very moment, about to be broken."



I interrupt this stream of whining to bring some post-modern goodness to your lives.
Itamar Moses has the biggest collection of Dinosaur art in the world (possibly).
This is an excerpt from his interview with NYMAG(?)

Who is your mortal enemy?  

And give them a heads-up? Please. They will never see me coming.

And he is also the author of the collection of plays called "Love/Stories (Or, But You Will Get Used to It)" and it's amazing and I cannot fathom my feels.

Whatever Wednesday

More whine whine wine wine

I keep refreshing all these stupid social networks hoping something will pop out, jump out at me and tell me you matter. Someone needs to talk to you. Someone was thinking about you at 12:31am. 

whine whine whine wine

Look at all these people trying to be beautiful

muse

shower

1. holds the promise of rejuvenation, that somehow - things become as clear as the tiny soap bubbles which don't disappear fast enough
2. but when I turn on the tap, the water just hits the bottom of my feet, the thousands of nerves there are screaming for me to move
3. and I tell myself I should stay on because the coldness in the air is going to disappear once the heater gets going
4. it just leaves me shivering, more conscious than ever, lacking any clarity and cold

Pillars

There are too many things that are happening at once and I despise this

1. Did you just call me a feely, whiny bitch- I'm really disappointed in you and it's me we're talking about so that means that you've really screwed up
2. I'm sorry I am a kill joy
3. No fuck you - l e a v e
4. Back the fuck off, really
5. Thank you for throwing a lovely party

East is where you go

Today is one of those - leave me alone no I do not want to explain to you why I am angst I just am live with it ok I'll get over myself tomorrow - days. Everything is just extremely underwhelming.

*My entire furuba collection is in Chinese and it still gave me so many feels, the author was amazing, but even that is underwhelming now because and I am just. meh. m e h.

She's not so high

If you don't like Alex Goot we cannot be friends.

Not The Type

"Woman, you were born to build."

Well I am tired, of taking your advice, of deciding how exactly it is I am supposed to piece this 5000 piece puzzle without any semblance of a guide. I cannot tell if this is a ship, or a jungle or just a white room. And I find myself breaking the glass walls I think I keep building and admiring the raspberries that drip down my hands, take a step back then continue to forge some kind of barricade with melting plastic. I'm still not doing it right, you say. Maybe this is all a cheap thrill for you, a box of odd ends and corners you couldn't fit into your masterpiece. 

No one should try to hug the rain

"Here is that... um... I was doing some shit poem"

She is a lopsided soliloquy. A wounded symphony played by an orchestra of her family’s “I-told-you-so”s. A tattered woman who bleeds like an oak tree. Her life story is just a sandpaper love song written on a napkin full of all the reasons why no one should ever try to hug the rain. You always end up soaking wet and by yourself. 

She: a rusty faucet, dripping self esteem that falls quicker than short skirts in motels when the sun blinks for too long. You see, when confidence hits the ground, it echoes like sin in a room full of God, and I could hear her coming a mile away. She has violin strings for legs, a graveyard of awkward treble clefs buried in her knees and I can see the suffering inside of the concert of her walk.

Her footsteps: they sound like the ignition to a father’s car the day that he decided that he was too thirsty to pour water on his own seed so when she calls me “daddy” I never really get excited because I know that it’s just the title that she gives the branches in her life that are destined to be abducted by the wind.

She comes over on Wednesdays. She walks into my room like a question that neither one of us has the courage to ask. Y’know sometimes, words, they get too heavy to sit on the ivory pedestals that we’ve built inside of our mouths. Y’know sometimes, our actions, they join hands and they become behaviors that are too complicated for lips to say out loud, so instead, we just liberate our flesh letting skin speak on our behalf, the language of those who are just as afraid of commitment as they are of being alone and we speak it like it’s our native tongue.

Honestly, I can’t tell you her favorite color… her middle name… or what her face looks like with the lights on. All I know is that we are both allergic to the exact same things: compliments… the word “beautiful”… and someone saying “I love you” with arms full of acceptance and sincerity on their breath.

Sometimes, I wonder what she carries in the luggage underneath her eyes. Sometimes, I-I wanna ask if those bags ever get too heavy for her face. But instead, I… I let those questions sandcastle inside of my stomach. I amputate the parts of me that have grown fond of her smell.

I wait until she leaves.

I wash my sheets.

And I think to myself, “most men would be proud of something like this.”

"Lopsided" - Rudy Francisco 

Impulse Buys

You know that
you are his
terrible decision waiting
to happen

Now
could you please, please just
bury your head in the
sand and never have to leave for a gasp of air

But that is a
rubbish-
"excuse me,
Is this seat taken?"

Do you ever just

I have found a new love. I'm sorry Benny. Everyone - Alexandre Cunha. You're welcome.

And, of course - 

30 minutes of my life on tumblr well spent

xx

Cellophane

I dreamt of cling wrap and serial killers last night and I woke up essentially just unable to move because I was in sleep paralysis and when I tried to close my eyes the image of a kitchen knife piercing through cling wrap towards me just kept reappearing. So I lay there with my eyes open and unable to move for a while.

From whatever little I remember - it had something to do with thin but not beautiful women. Four in a row. They're those types that you will see following high fashion, but maybe lacking about 700 calories in their diet daily. I remember laughter, them fading, like a movie pan out along the corridor. Then cling wrap over my face and metal.

Why do we want and crave beauty? When we know, that starving ourselves is terrible and that heels mean weaker bones in the future. Besides, corsets are really really tight and you need to go for training before you can wear one so you don't, you know, die from internal bleeding or from puncturing your lungs.

10 bucks says it's because somewhere deep down we crave being just a little broken, to have something wrong with us that MAYBE someone will notice. To have a larger wound, to fall just a bit sicker so your co-workers are obliged to be nicer to you - it's no use suffering in silence.

Metal blob

nonsense blogpost

Puncture

Punctuation
I worry about you, I'm afraid. 
I worry about you. I'm afraid. 
I worry. About you, I'm afraid.

I worry about you, I'm afraid.
Oh-
A weak smile.
I wasn't expecting that.
It's fine, whatever. Really, just. Forget everything I said.
When did you...
When? I don't think it was when, really. I always knew. At the back of my mind. It was more of a unwillingness to accept it. Because like I said, it's stupid.
I'm sorry I don't, I just never, well, I didn't.  And I don't think I ca-
No. No, it's fine

I worry about you. I'm afraid. 
Hello?
Can you do me a favor? 
Yeah, anyth- What's up? 
I, (the are you okays are mingled with static and bustling) 
Mm?
I'm fine. It's ok. It's been settled. 
(laughter, buzz and someone calling your name in the background) I've got this than- 
You're welcome, why'd you call me

I worry. About you, I'm afraid. 
It's fine. Just some stupid thing between friends. It happens all the time. 
Friends, mmmm. 
Friends. 
Mmmmmm 
Mmmmmmmmm

Now punctuate this -you worry about me you're afraid

one

two

three

go

Say nothing, do everything

Here's a mix because promos are irrelephant

I am a strong independent woman  sometimes secretly wish I was a phone call away from a coffee date with some people. But I'm not so I made this mix with songs that remind me of said people.

I miss FL so much, why did they cancel the show-  I NEED to project my feels onto an attractive cast with perfect chemistry/ gorgeous clothes which runs on caffeine and cliché, non-cliché quotes. (but seriously... Courage is an angel yada yada JUST NO)

Skim

Moscow to Sputnik 2, we're loosing you

Thank you person who recommended this to me. I needed it.

I imagine us to be at a traffic light. You were holding my hand. Or were you? But then you dashed across the street only (half) expecting me to follow. I think it was the headlight of the car that was coming, or some black cat I thought was passing by. I didn't actually realize I was frozen to the ground until the car rushed between the space between the two of us and I felt the gust of wind. And you're signalling to me to run after you. You're looking back, with maybe a hint of irritation which you try to cover with your "soothing voice" which I know is just your i-don't-want-to-deal-with-this mode. I ruin all the fun.

So help me, because I'm scared and I can't do this alone and I just hate being this cliché of a pathetic fck.