I like things soaked in brine, daydreaming, my dog, crafting, biking, and music with lots of pedal steel.
I have curly hair and a lot of fake teeth and I’m very tall.
Who I Follow

But on the third day, there were ants. Paradise had folded back in on itself; I left with some sort of possibly jellyfish-related rash. This was the tail end of the longest time I’d ever taken off work (two weeks), and I suppose the moral of the story is that I don’t vacation well. Put me in paradise, put a drink in my hand, and I’ll leave with a suitcase full of ants.


 Lee Jung (b. 1972, Korea) ” Neon Text”

(via lauriehalseanderson)

To be a happy person, one has to drop all comparison. Drop all these stupid ideas of being superior and inferior. You are neither superior nor inferior. You are simply yourself! There exists no one like you, no one with whom you can be compared. Then, suddenly, you are at home.

Happy Chompers Friday! #pekingese

Today the universe left me a pair of grippy work gloves by the entrance to the Williamsburg bridge. It was dark and raining, my bike chain had jumped off, was stuck really bad, and I was about to give up on trying with my bare hands when the work gloves—just what I needed, just laying there, clean—caught my eye. Thanks, universe. Gratitude for tiny miracles.

I’m sitting at my desk right now, looking out my window at the sun on the grass (how lucky am I, in New York, to have a green view?), and I want desperately to be outside in it.

Two memories related to sun and grass:

I spent almost one entire summer in high school in the backyard sitting in the grass, leaning against my sister’s swing set, reading. I sat there because it was the sunniest place in the yard, and I methodically worked my way through my mom’s collection of books in the garage. It was perfect in every way.

"Sitting on grass in the sun is what makes me happiest in life," I said to my friend one summer afternoon outside the MSU Dairy Store. We were, of course, sitting on grass in the sun at the time, and fresh eating ice cream, which never hurts. "Life should be really easy for you then," he said, amused. 

That’s it. That’s all I need. More sunny patches of grass of sit on. 

(via amilassie)

I’ve been hunched for so long. I hunched in January, when it was really cold and snowed a lot. I hunched through the cold and snow and dark of February and March, and even hunched through the continued cold of April—but I’m trying to hunch less. I read somewhere that when you’re cold the instinct is to hunch, but that actually makes you colder. I hunch at a desk 8 hours a day 5 days a week. It feels so glorious to come home, to recline. To pile on the blankets, prop up with pillows, and forget about pain for awhile. 

Could this all be because of hunching? Have I hunched my way into panic disorder and a thousand scattered and undiagnosable symptoms? Have I drained my bank account visiting specialist after specialist because of a toxic bath of hunched shoulders cruel winter nervous disposition and a vitamin D deficiency? 

Try acupuncture, my doctor says. Try energy healing. My mom took classes in reiki when I was in high school—she tried it on me once when my heart was racing, but I don’t really remember the outcome. I remember better the time she tried it on the polar bears at the zoo—holding her hands out, trying to summon them closer to the glass with energy channels. It was winter then, too. 

I was almost ready for acupuncture—almost—I say almost because I still get a little light-headed around needles—until last week when I got a nerve test as part of my litany of medical torture. Evidently, my grandma got one last week too. They told her it wasn’t going to hurt, and then it did, and they continually admonished her for being jumpy. I can sympathize, and wish I had known I wasn’t alone in my experience as the doctor stabbed needles (“they’re very thin, like acupuncture needles!”) into my neck and rooted around for compressed nerves. Or something. I don’t know what he was doing, but it hurt like hell. “Shh, shh, relax your shoulders” he said as he wiggled my shoulders back and forth (while stabbing harder, weird noises coming from the electric currents in the machine he was working with). Don’t you understand that I can’t? Don’t you see that that’s why I’m here? 

When the weather gets warm, I mean for-real-warm—when the ice cream trucks come out and the sidewalk cafes reopen and the air is a cacophony of windows down and stereos up—that’s when I temporarily forget that New York is a shit-hole. This is how every winter’s deep conviction that I have to leave now gets turned into each summer’s thought floating loose in the back of my mind with all the other pipe dreams that require honestly just too much effort when there are patios to sit on, flowering trees to walk beneath.

I used to say I hated flowers. I was mortified if a boyfriend gave me some; I’d rudely throw them down on the couch or shove them in my locker. I said I hated Valentine’s Day too, wore orange on St. Patrick’s Day even though I’m not British, and obnoxiously lectured anyone in earshot about their poor grammar or how that milk they were drinking had puss in it.  This, of course, was self-preservation: attack first, and hide your tender heart. 

I’ve developed a faux presidential platform based solely on mandatory bicycling and bike infrastructure, but I have to admit, here and now, that I want a car. I want an unreasonably big-ass SUV. And a house with a porch swing and a backyard. And a Super Target with an unreasonably big-ass parking lot to park my big-ass car in while I go inside and wander aimlessly. I want ease and comfort. I want to be split right open and not be afraid to join in and be un-ironically joyful. I want flowers.