I work in a museum so I am the last person you want to visit a museum with. Unless you want to hear an endless stream of "there is no way this text had input from the educational team for average visitor clarity" "the old woman next to me complained she couldn't read the didactic panel and she's right, size 20 font simply isn't sufficient for this distance and even I can't read it" and "how does the brand new wing still have coat hooks five and a half feet off the ground in the handicap bathroom stall"
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mom put my aliexpress poliwag plush in the wash for some reason and his nose and feet fell off
so he looks like this now
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theres this horrid assumption in the fashion industry that the only people on the planet that want to wear cool boots and shoes are women and that the only women that want to wear these cool as fuck boots and shoes have really small feet. they dont make cool shoes for those like me who were born with larger feet and its so annoying and makes shoe shopping a gigantic pain. i can theoretically find cool shoes but it requires an enormous amount of effort especially when the styles i want to wear just dont exist in "mens" sizes. anyway we need to make bigger shoes end of rant
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these days, the summer fan is on, and there is a little cricket in you. your mother would say you don't have ambition, but that's not quite true. you just had different priorities: for most of your life, the pain swallowed so much of your energy that picturing a future was almost impossible. it took so much just to render yourself here without evaporating - making goals always felt shallow, far-off.
at 17, maybe you would have wanted to be famous. maybe you would have wanted to kiss every woman and come home late at night and call the dawn to heel like a dog. to meet taylor swift and ask her to collaborate on poems and french-kiss in the rain. to wiggle your fingers at jealous ex-lovers while you lifted the hem of your ballgown and got out of limousines. a life of rooftops, spinning and glittering.
these days, it isn't that you're tired, but that you have learned the weight of carrying things. you have had the good times. you have laughed at the bottom of a pool. you have had your hands on the paring knife. you know the cost of it, like a carcinogen. these days, you want a life like a stone fruit. these days, you want a life that lays gently on your skin, rather than piercing through.
you are going to get a little condo with your friend. the two of you fantasize about basic things: how it will feel to cook in a friendly kitchen. the serenity of picking out wall paint colors. putting plants in the sunlit corner. you want a place that never rings in anger. where the only echo is jazz music. you want a peace like holding your head under the water.
ah. maybe your younger self would be devastated - you got boring?
she doesn't know yet. she has lived her entire life terrified, running. she has grown so accustomed to the threat that she has fallen in love with the scythe. she thinks passionate and violent are synonyms, that anything lovely has to come with a bad side. she thinks life has to break like a wave - that you need to swallow the ocean in order to stay above the foam. she doesn't know about the boat yet. she doesn't know about spending hours at home, quiet, your hands folded, finding peace. she doesn't know about weightlessness. she thinks everything good is everything sharp. that the pain is what makes something satisfying.
one day she will make cookies from scratch. one day when she breaks a plate, she will be the only one around, and nobody will start shouting. one day she will slip her fingers under the sand, and it will make sense to her. the life assembling in little shards: oh. i've been afraid of a quiet life at home because i've never had a quiet home to come to before.
the gentle world inside her, singing behind a door.
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