Pot Kettle Black.
Lizzy. 20. 301 to 312.
Pot Kettle Black.
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6 a.m. life, one of my most cherished disposables.
Chicago, May 2011
This was taken freshman year during my last weekend of college. I had spent the entire night with my friends cramped in a twin bed overlooking State Street. We drank whiskey purchased by someone of age. We had a bottle of wine, but quickly ran into trouble after realizing neither of us owned a wine opener. Not so sophisticated after all (We still joked about this every time someone had wine). We took turns to desperately try removing the cork with a pocket knife. We all watched in misery as the cork fell to the bottom of the bottle. Someone said corks aren’t good for you, and distributed the wine amongst each other before it could disintegrate. We planned on finishing it anyway.
Most importantly, we enjoyed each other’s company. We laughed so much. I never thought I would find a group of friends that felt like family.
We parted around 5 a.m. I was still giggling as I climbed the stairs, thinking about my friend proudly misplacing his belt. I got to my room and laid in bed without showering, which was a big deal at the time. I stared at the light movement from Congress Street when my phone went off. My friend Allie said she wasn’t tired. And then asked if I wanted to go on a walk. I decided to join her, and did a “yolo” even though it wasn’t a thing yet. I put on sweat pants and a hoodie, then met her in the lobby. The light was just starting to appear over the horizon when we got to Grant Park. We walked and reminisced about the time we found $40 laying in the park, and about another time when we saw a fox. We noticed there was a lot of stuff set up in the park, but didn’t think much of it. We got to the lake and sat overlooking the abyss that is Lake Michigan. We talked as the sun rose and the runners came out. 
The funny thing about that morning is that there was a marathon going on. We felt so out of place in our oversized sweatpants and hoodies. The biggest takeaway was if you leave the house before 10 a.m. always wear workout clothes to make it look like you got somewhere to be (not really but really).
© Keighlea Martin
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fleurilina:

blushuella:

u-ncovering:

not rosy, not rosier, but ROSIEST blog over here <3

 on wednesdays we stay fab xx 

❀ ƒℓeuriℓinα ❀
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sunkissedskin-:

Picnics by the beach 👌
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amihipsteryet:

"To Boddah
Speaking from the tongue of an experienced simpleton who obviously would rather be an emasculated, infantile complain-ee. This note should be pretty easy to understand.
All the warnings from the punk rock 101 courses over the years, since my first introduction to the, shall we say, ethics involved with independence and the embracement of your community has proven to be very true. I haven’t felt the excitement of listening to as well as creating music along with reading and writing for too many years now. I feel guity beyond words about these things.
For example when we’re back stage and the lights go out and the manic roar of the crowds begins., it doesn’t affect me the way in which it did for Freddie Mercury, who seemed to love, relish in the the love and adoration from the crowd which is something I totally admire and envy. The fact is, I can’t fool you, any one of you. It simply isn’t fair to you or me. The worst crime I can think of would be to rip people off by faking it and pretending as if I’m having 100% fun. Sometimes I feel as if I should have a punch-in time clock before I walk out on stage. I’ve tried everything within my power to appreciate it (and I do,God, believe me I do, but it’s not enough). I appreciate the fact that I and we have affected and entertained a lot of people. It must be one of those narcissists who only appreciate things when they’re gone. I’m too sensitive. I need to be slightly numb in order to regain the enthusiasms I once had as a child.
On our last 3 tours, I’ve had a much better appreciation for all the people I’ve known personally, and as fans of our music, but I still can’t get over the frustration, the guilt and empathy I have for everyone. There’s good in all of us and I think I simply love people too much, so much that it makes me feel too fucking sad. The sad little, sensitive, unappreciative, Pisces, Jesus man. Why don’t you just enjoy it? I don’t know!
I have a goddess of a wife who sweats ambition and empathy and a daughter who reminds me too much of what I used to be, full of love and joy, kissing every person she meets because everyone is good and will do her no harm. And that terrifies me to the point to where I can barely function. I can’t stand the thought of Frances becoming the miserable, self-destructive, death rocker that I’ve become.
I have it good, very good, and I’m grateful, but since the age of seven, I’ve become hateful towards all humans in general. Only because it seems so easy for people to get along that have empathy. Only because I love and feel sorry for people too much I guess.
Thank you all from the pit of my burning, nauseous stomach for your letters and concern during the past years. I’m too much of an erratic, moody baby! I don’t have the passion anymore, and so remember, it’s better to burn out than to fade away.
Peace, love, empathy.Kurt Cobain
Frances and Courtney, I’ll be at your alter.Please keep going Courtney, for Frances.For her life, which will be so much happier without me.
I LOVE YOU, I LOVE YOU!”
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nynpha:

untitled by Bernie DeChante