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... I've found myself in the exact place I wasn't expecting to.

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There are two people I love foolishly, to an absurd extent, and regardless of distance or complexity. One of them I saw yesterday, for the first time in 6 years, and I’m still smiling.

AKA That time I told people about themselves on public transit.


The New Yorker in me came out tonight in Oakland. Well, on BART, really. 

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Please don’t tell girls “The boy who’s picking on you actually just likes you”

Even if it’s true, you shouldn’t teach girls to respect that sort of affection.

And you should definitely not teach boys that expressing their attraction to women through violence and disrespect is ok.

This, this, this.

And how about also stop telling little girls to “be a bigger person” when a little guy is being a dick and regulate little homie’s behavior, instead?

Documenting the MBA’s crimes against the English language (part 2 of many)


I was choking on my own respect for myself

My brother (via iamstark96)

Also my brother. Oh, kid. 

It’s not

"Why can’t you just love me?!"


"Why can’t you just love me the way I want you to love me?!"

I guess that’s kind of unfair? Whatever.

Be young. Be dope. Be Proud.
- The Declaration of Independence (1776)

(Source: merricats)



The caption was to a gory photo, under the #feminist tag.
This is serious.

Signal boost, please. People need to stay out of these tags for now.
In which

the one relationship that has ever made you feel like Kanye makes Kanye feel is not your relationship

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Fall in love with someone who treats you like kanye treats kanye

On California’s Fire Season

you’re consuming all of me. charring my soil and throwing sand as though it’s yours to throw. anger at profound betrayal of your people, the bitterness of stolen land being inhabited for so long with plastic people fuels your furor and forges you on.

in your wake you leave skeletons of imprints formerly laid as you taunt the people to resist. what began as a novelty, as something we took time out of our day to watch with leisure, has turned into a nightmare. my memories are on that land you’re foraging. my memories are of that land and in that land and are that land. and you, in all your glorious reds and oranges and golds, are rendering those memories rubble.

if only you generated rebirth. my tall eucalyptus, weighted down with images of warm afternoons spent romping behind the blanket-curtain of mike’s room, pictures of nate and me swimming in oceanside, and dozens of other candids that surface in salt-watery recollections, is reduced to embers that shine long and luscious from the oil in every thread of my being. if you encouraged reincarnation i’d come back as a skyward palm, untouchable but for those with enough skill to conquer my steep exterior, my fronds blessed and holy. or an orange grove, the scrumptious fruits fertilized by your mourning ash and made more delicious through your pain.

alas, you are only destruction. until the cold waters of the pacific tame your passion and rage, you will exert your wrath on everything and anything in sight. your smoke signals have been seen and duly noted by the gods. end your fight; there is no honor in devastation.


My glitter bug
sparkler, glistening
under the eternal weight
of a leaden cozy
a prison of nostalgic glue traps
and dead poets.
We found beauty
intellectual motivation
in the semi-obscure crevices
most gloss over,
at best.
We loved as deeply,
as stickily,
as an oil well of rubber cement
bouncing around our syrupy pain
and pasty isolations
until the day we woke up
and simply cared no more
for conventional flatware,
the art of our
caucasian predecessors.
It’s a new world now!
Change we can count on
is marching nowhere
is marching in circles
the same leaders
who won’t remember
your name
or the details
of your story
a year from now.


John Purser