SHE LEFT A BAG OF HER OWN SHIT ON HIS COUNTER
Random People Reviewing The HONY Book:
Slightly confused strangers provide snap judgements of Humans of New York.
The Art of Organization…
"The Art of Clean UP": El arts de ordenar
This is very pleasing to my ocd tendencies
Some poems from “B Is for Bad Poetry” by Pamela August Russell
I doubt I’ve ever loved a tumblr post as much as this.
People always say that it hurts at night and apparently screaming into your pillow at 3am is the romantic equivalent of being heartbroken.
But sometimes, it’s 9am on a tuesday morning and you’re standing at the kitchen bench waiting for the toast to pop up.
And the smell of dusty sunlight and earl gray tea makes you miss him so much, you don’t know what to do with your hands.” by Rosie Scanlan, On Missing Them (via drapetomania)
Doesn’t mean I don’t think about you. Doesn’t mean I don’t check up on you. Doesn’t mean I don’t worry and wonder about how you are doing. Doesn’t mean I don’t care about you anymore.
But it does mean that you don’t care enough, don’t wonder enough, don’t bother enough about someone you claim is important. Because words are important but they don’t mean jack when you are not willing to take action because you’re too scared or lazy or busy or proud. So if you care, if you wonder, if you worry, then talk to them. Take a leap of faith. Crash and burn. Whatever. Do something instead of wallowing in paralysing passivity.