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About: Tell me something true and I'll fall in love with you.

"She’s not the brightest box in the wood," said my brilliant boyfriend.

"Nudity is a costume too. I didn’t necessarily feel naked."

– Marine Vacth

(Source:, via suiyobi)

"Human beings are works in progress that mistakenly think they’re finished. The person you are right now is as transient, as fleeting and as temporary as all the people you’ve ever been.”


cute things to call your girlfriend:

1. sugar 
2. honey 
3. flour 
4. egg 
5. 1/2lb butter 
6. stir 
7. pour into pan 
8. preheat to 375°

(via dontbutterhermuffin)

"So what sustains desire, and why is it so difficult? And at the heart of sustaining desire in a committed relationship, I think is the reconciliation of two fundamental human needs. On the one hand, our need for security, for predictability, for safety, for dependability, for reliability, for permanence — all these anchoring, grounding experiences of our lives that we call home. But we also have an equally strong need — men and women — for adventure, for novelty, for mystery, for risk, for danger, for the unknown, for the unexpected, surprise — you get the gist — for journey, for travel. So reconciling our need for security and our need for adventure into one relationship, or what we today like to call a passionate marriage, used to be a contradiction in terms. Marriage was an economic institution in which you were given a partnership for life in terms of children and social status and succession and companionship. But now we want our partner to still give us all these things, but in addition I want you to be my best friend and my trusted confidant and my passionate lover to boot, and we live twice as long. So we come to one person, and we basically are asking them to give us what once an entire village used to provide: Give me belonging, give me identity, give me continuity, but give me transcendence and mystery and awe all in one. Give me comfort, give me edge. Give me novelty, give me familiarity. Give me predictability, give me surprise.And we think it’s a given, and toys and lingerie are going to save us with that.”

The Song of Despair
by Pablo Neruda

The memory of you emerges from the night around me.
The river mingles its stubborn lament with the sea.

Deserted like the wharves at dawn.
It is the hour of departure, oh deserted one!

Cold flower heads are raining over my heart.
Oh pit of debris, fierce cave of the shipwrecked.

In you the wars and the flights accumulated.
From you the wings of the song birds rose.

You swallowed everything, like distance.
Like the sea, like time. In you everything sank!

It was the happy hour of assault and the kiss.
The hour of the spell that blazed like a lighthouse.

Pilot’s dread, fury of a blind diver,
turbulent drunkenness of love, in you everything sank!

In the childhood of mist my soul, winged and wounded.
Lost discoverer, in you everything sank!

You girdled sorrow, you clung to desire,
sadness stunned you, in you everything sank!

I made the wall of shadow draw back,
beyond desire and act, I walked on.

Oh flesh, my own flesh, woman whom I loved and lost,
I summon you in the moist hour, I raise my song to you.

Like a jar you housed the infinite tenderness,
and the infinite oblivion shattered you like a jar.

There was the black solitude of the islands,
and there, woman of love, your arms took me in.

There were thirst and hunger, and you were the fruit.
There were grief and the ruins, and you were the miracle.

Ah woman, I do not know how you could contain me
in the earth of your soul, in the cross of your arms!

How terrible and brief was my desire of you!
How difficult and drunken, how tensed and avid.

Cemetery of kisses, there is still fire in your tombs,
still the fruited boughs burn, pecked at by birds.

Oh the bitten mouth, oh the kissed limbs,
oh the hungering teeth, oh the entwined bodies.

Oh the mad coupling of hope and force
in which we merged and despaired.

And the tenderness, light as water and as flour.
And the word scarcely begun on the lips.

This was my destiny and in it was the voyage of my longing,
and in it my longing fell, in you everything sank!

Oh pit of debris, everything fell into you,
what sorrow did you not express, in what sorrow are you not drowned!

From billow to billow you still called and sang.
Standing like a sailor in the prow of a vessel.

You still flowered in songs, you still broke in currents.
Oh pit of debris, open and bitter well.

Pale blind diver, luckless slinger,
lost discoverer, in you everything sank!

It is the hour of departure, the hard cold hour
which the night fastens to all the timetables.

The rustling belt of the sea girdles the shore.
Cold stars heave up, black birds migrate.

Deserted like the wharves at dawn.
Only the tremulous shadow twists in my hands.

Oh farther than everything. Oh farther than everything.

It is the hour of departure. Oh abandoned one.

“Let’s go to a party and be mean to people we want to be nice to,” I said.

“For sure, let’s go and have a terrible time,” he said.

“It’s complex because parties are where you’re supposed to have good times, but we never do,” I said.

“Yes,” he said.

“Uuuuuuughhhh,” I moaned, and then all of my bones fell out because of alienation, and I flopped to the floor like a fish, and I went “uuuuuuggghhghghghghgh again.”

“Bluuuuughhhhh,” he agreed, and he was so alienated that he disappeared and stopped existing. What even is the self.

— Mallory Ortberg, My Prestigious Literary Novel

Some guy came over for terrible, casual sex. We had sex. It was terrible. Afterwards we rolled into fetal positions facing different directions, not making eye contact, because of these modern times we live in, with Candy Crush.

“Don’t even think about trying to connect with me,” I said. “I hate connecting, and also marriage.”

“Oh, me too, for sure,” he said. “It’s my least favorite of the institutions.”

“For sure,” I agreed. “All institutions are terrible but marriage is the most terrible.”

No one had any orgasms, for sure.

— Mallory Ortberg, My Prestigious Literary Novel

“I’m so lonely,” I said.

“I love you,” he said.

“That’s not what I meant.”

— Mallory Ortberg, My Prestigious Literary Novel

I will forever be in love with the image, the idea of Nastassya Filippovna, the protangonist of this complex novel. She is passion embodied, a flower of melodrama in eternal bloom.

– Uzoamaka Maduka, on The Idiot by Fyodor Dostoevsky