A lot, or a little bit about me I want you to want to know.
I am what ever gender you wish me to be, even though that is a bit creepy- but creepy is as creepy does and the genders obvious anyways, but sine I write from both standpoints (equality people!) you'll have to deal. Whatever.
I live on music and quotes and beds and camera's and writing and my guitar; I wish I was a lesbian because boys suck; I wish my hair took bleach better and I wish I wasn't short. I am the self-hating reckless daughter of a cautious, slightly homophobic, stereotypical Jewish mother and live to be everything she is not. I might be failing. I am a rebel NOT a hipster, and I will readily debate with you why the hipster sub-culture sucks. I will be wrong. I often am. (Youngest child who's eldest sibling is a perfect genius are often)
The taxes are too damn high. Religion breeds stupidity, but the culture and rituals are fascinating. Gay rights are a GIVEN, not something to be debated. You have the right to do whatever you wish as long as it doesn't breach someone else's rights or harm them in anyways. Nostalgia breeds a culture of retro-mania, and museums should be burned if they are about something less than 50 years old. Library are where ever child should be able to live in. Media focus on freak accident/anomaly's instead of things that happen every day - in Chicago every day, someone is shot - and this is wrong. Everyone is equal. Different but equal. Grammar is debatable, and long sentences, when used right, can be glorious. Tests are not an accurate measure of one's intelligent. This is an opinion - this is my opinion. I might be wrong. I often am.
I have insomnia and ADD and migraines, a lisp, and two best friends. I want to tell you (whoever you happen to be) everything about myself, absolutely everything, but that would be stupid. Apparently. I talk a lot. Apparently.
I am a bitch. I am a bitch because I am outspoken and stubborn and have masculine traits and if that makes me a bitch, so be it.
Rules bother me. Limits bother me. Stereotypes bother me. Over sharing bothers me, even though I'm doing that at the moment.
I am not as pretentious as I seem. Or maybe I am. Whatever. Sorry.
I love quotes.
"Every atom in your body came from a star that exploded. And, the atoms in your left hand probably came from a different star than your right hand. It really is the most poetic thing I know about physics: You are all stardust. You couldn’t be here if stars hadn’t exploded, because the elements - the carbon, nitrogen, oxygen, iron, all the things that matter for evolution and for life - weren’t created at the beginning of time. They were created in the nuclear furnaces of stars, and the only way for them to get into your body is if those stars were kind enough to explode. So, forget Jesus. The stars died so that you could be here today."
“I fix the cramped, lined pages
with my curious stare. How do you
come to exist?”
“it doesn't matter if Prince Charles falls off his horse
or that the hummingbird is so seldom
or that we are too senseless to go
coffee. give us more of that NOTHING
“A long time ago people believed that the world is flat and the moon is made of green cheese. Some still do, to this day. The man on the moon is looking down and laughing.”
“On the late afternoon streets, everyone hurries along, going about their own business.
Who is the person walking in front of you on the rain-drenched sidewalk?
He is covered with an umbrella, and all you can see is a dark coat and the shoes striking the puddles.
And yet this person is the hero of his own life story.
He is the love of someone’s life.
And what he can do may change the world.
Imagine being him for a moment.
And then continue on your own way.”
“Nothing of me is original. I am the combined effort of everybody I've ever known.”
“Break the glass, I thought to myself, because it is a symbolic gesture. Try to understand that within myself, things were breaking of much more importance than a glass, and I’m happy for that. Look to your own inner struggles and break this glass.
Our parents taught us to be careful with glasses and with our bodies. They taught us that the passions of childhood are impossible; we should not remove men from the priesthood, that people do not perform miracles and that no one goes on a journey without knowing where he wants to go.
Break this cup, please, I thought to myself, and release of all these damn misconceptions, the habit you have of only doing that which everyone agrees with.”
“I want to take back at least half of the “I love you”s, because I didn’t mean them as much as the other ones. I want to take back the book of artsy photos I gave you, because you didn’t get it and said it was hipster trash. I want to take back what I said about you being an emotional zombie. I want to take back the time I called you “honey” in front of your sister and you looked like I had just shown her pictures of us having sex. I want to take back the wineglass I broke when I was mad, because it was a nice wineglass and the argument would have ended anyway. I want to take back the time we had sex in a rent-a-car, not because I feel bad about the people who got in the car after us, but because it was massively uncomfortable. I want to take back the trust I had while you were away in Austin. I want to take back the time I said you were a genius, because I was being sarcastic and I should have just said you’d hurt my feelings. I want to take back the secrets I told you so I can decide now whether to tell them to you again. I want to take back the piece of me that lies in you, to see if I truly miss it. I want to take back at least half the “I love you”s, because it feels safer that way.”
Your car breaks and you take it to the garage – dirty room, five mechanics maybe, car keys hung on nails next to the front counter. Two cars on lifts, one car in the corner, all the other cars parked in the back. Everything and everybody is covered in grease, everyone's smoking like crazy. They have to fix 20 cars before 5pm, or else the backlog will fucking break everybody's back until Christmas. The parts suppliers roll in every half-hour or so, mostly bringing new brake pads and flex-hoses, but bumpers sometimes, oil-pans, headlight assemblies or timing belts. In a good garage, the whole mess of it almost collapses all day long. Dudes yell and argue, everything's going wrong and why are we doing this anyways? The hose won't fucking fit, or the screwdriver slips and you lose the hose-clamp somewhere beneath the undercarriage. The sun starts to set and the floor gets littered with burnt bulbs, spent gaskets, oil, and sweat, and brake fluid. Someone's hungover, someone's heartbroken, someone couldn't sleep last night, someone feels unappreciated, but all that matters is making it through the pile, the labour is shared and there's a perfect broken poetry to the hammering and yelling, the whine of the air compressor kicking to life every five minutes or so. It all seems impossible. But somehow we make it through the pile. The cars run again. The cars drive away. Rough day but now it's done, and everything's fine; everything's better than fine. Tomorrow we'll do it all over again. You deal with the Volvo, I'll deal with the Toyota. Heat and noise. All day, every day, until it's quiet again. We fix cars until we die. We love fixing cars.
“If I should ever die, God forbid, let this be my epitaph:
THE ONLY PROOF HE NEEDED
FOR THE EXISTENCE OF GOD