“When is our culture gonna outgrow this wedding thing? Weddings are like little girls’ tea parties. Except the women are the stuffed animals, the men are making them talk, and they’re not drinking tea - they’re drinking antiquated gender roles.”—Britta Perry, Community
I’m put together beautifully big wet bottle in my fist, big wet rose in my teeth. I’m perfect piece of ass, like every Californian, so tall I take over the street, with highbeams shining on my back, a wingspan unbelievable, I’m a festival, I’m a parade.
And all the wine is all for me, and all the wine is all for me, and all the wine is all for me.
A love story can never be about full possession. The happy marriage, the requited love, the desire that never dims. These are lucky eventualites but they aren’t love stories. Love stories depend on disappointment, on unequal births and feuding families, on matrimonial boredom and at least one cold heart. Love stories, nearly without exception, give love a bad name.
We value love not because it’s stronger than death but because it’s weaker. Say what you want about love: death will finish it. You will not go on loving in the grave, not in any physical way that will at all resemble love as we know it on earth. The perishable nature of love is what gives love its importance in our lives. If it were endless, if it were on tap, love wouldn’t hit us the way it does.
And we certainly wouldn’t write about it.
”—Jeffrey Eugenides, My Mistress’s Sparrow is Dead
Sometimes, I forget how awesome Washed Out is. And then I put on his album while I’m on the train and have that “holy fuck, why am I not listening to this every minute of every day” moment. About to go buy this album on vinyl, aka, my ultimate commitment move.
there’s a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out but I’m too tough for him, I say, stay in there, I’m not going to let anybody see you.
there’s a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out but I pour whiskey on him and inhale cigarette smoke and the whores and the bartenders and the grocery clerks never know that he’s in there.
there’s a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out but I’m too tough for him, I say, stay down, do you want to mess me up? you want to screw up the works? you want to blow my book sales in Europe?
there’s a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out but I’m too clever, I only let him out at night sometimes when everybody’s asleep. I say, I know that you’re there, so don’t be sad.
then I put him back, but he’s still singing a little in there, I haven’t quite let him die and we sleep together like that with our secret pact and it’s nice enough to make a man weep, but I don’t weep, do you?