lesbeansprout

[lesbeansprout]

[lesbeansprout]

even more extraordinarily good cropped conservative images

[lesbeansprout]

[lesbeansprout]

When I was in the hospital, they gave me a big bracelet that said ALLERGY, but like. I'm allergic to bees. Were they going to prescribe me bees in there.

[lesbeansprout]

WERE ANY OF YOU GOING TO TELL ME THERE WAS SUPPOSED TO BE A PHYSICAL REACTION TO HOT PEOPLE??? LIKE HEARTRATE RISES AND ALL THAT. THAT’S REAL??

[lesbeansprout]

Have and Have Not (2006) Crystal Schenk

[lesbeansprout]

ur telling me a masc king taped this?

[lesbeansprout]

perhaps some will disagree, but i think the world got worse when we changed the colour of the night

[lesbeansprout]

[lesbeansprout]

Omg I just learned most of my theater friends didn’t know about Good Fishnets?! If you frequently find yourself wearing fishnets and don’t know about good fishnets, please allow me the privilege of sharing this with you

So here’s what you’re gonna do. You’re gonna go to a dancewear store. You’re gonna find the expensive fishnets. They’re not cheap, like $20-$30 a pop. But let me tell you. I had to wear fishnets for 90% of my competition costumes in high school. Normal fishnets I was packing 2-3 pairs a competition. One pair of the good ones lasted me almost 2 years. I think the only major hole I got was in the heel where it could be covered. They’re a game changer trust me

#theatre

[lesbeansprout]

dude........

[lesbeansprout]

curious. anyway,

#things like this have a way of finding me when I need them most #because wow this just brought me to tears

[lesbeansprout]

monarchy has no real purpose and should be abolished irl but im a slut for royal families in fiction. the politics. the intrigue. families divided by the eyes of a nation. the pressure of children told from birth that they are born to rule, born for only one purpose. the stifling of empathy and real bonds and love. the loneliness when all eyes are on you. it’s so inherently tragic and yet everyone involved is terrible because that’s all they can be. gimme.

[lesbeansprout]

[lesbeansprout]

A job I was applying for mentioned I would be working with something called a “frosted flatwoods salamander”, which sounded positively delightful, so I looked them up and I could not be more pleased with what this beast looks like

[lesbeansprout]

mr beast just cured me from being dead but he hates how i turned out so they didn't even upload the video about it

[lesbeansprout]

i wasn't supposed to write about roses or blood or silver, about hearts or wings or galaxies; my teacher used to press her hands, firmly, to the top of our poetry stacks and beg us - love different. she was bored of it. i'd go home and write something with each of her off-limits words, emboldened by spite.

for a stint of time, i was a reader for a poetry magazine, shifting through thousands of submitted writings, each hopefully printed onto my tiny laptop screen for next-submission-viewing. one editor had a pile where we would put all the poems with parsnips or cauliflower, one pile for long-thin emergency rants that devolved into a blank scream, one pile for mentions of belladonna and chartreuse - for a whole year, i'd go to bed hearing chartreuse and silver and cities playing in my head in calligraphy. every three months, the beautiful public eye would become just-fascinated by pretty things. unusual, beautiful monstrosities. one winter, all about daises. the next, a fascination with posies. i watched the world spin from catching love in language to the same five phrases - help, it's ending, i'm alone, help, it's dark here, come home, help -

later, as an english teacher, i saw patterns. every semester, one million essays about four specific things. it wasn't pretty enough to be a teachable moment: the content they wanted to discuss was all extremely violent; a broken anthem of climate change and constantly being videoed is destroying us. i would wake up shaking, worried their visions were prophetic, soon-to-be-true. selfish, i couldn't handle the constant semester-to-semester panic they scribbled into six paragraphs, MLA-formatted text. read the world is ending fifty times every month; sob to your therapist i'm not doing enough, tell your students: please, no more violence, i don't have the right stomach.

each one seemed the same poem: we're dying, and nobody is coming to save us.

there are very few celebration poems these days. i want to rest my hand on a stack of poems about love in big red wings. love in a jacket, standing under an open galaxy. love written on the bicep, in an anatomically correct heart, with an arrow shot through the center so you can see the pink viscera of surviving a wound - so you know that even permanent tattoos are permeable. blood on the snout of a newborn lamb. silver rings around the pink scales of a pigeon's leg, and love with her hand around the ribs of a bird. i want to read boring essays about lunch. about which video games run the best graphics. about carnivals. about love in big cliche terms: standing in a garden of parsnips, clutching daises to her chest, eating raw meat over the body of a rich man.

i want to open the poetry magazine and have pages of sonnets about bluebells. about survival. about a mundane, beautiful spring. about sitting with your dog on a front porch, writing without spite, happily toying with the idea of ice cream.

my student sends me an email. i know you said to write about what brings you joy. but nothing really makes me happy these days. i don't know what i'm doing.