to move up and down
It Kinda Rhymes With Coma
My name is Nneoma. It kinda rhymes with "coma." I write about stuff. Yale '15.
Happy birthday Lisa “Left Eye” Lopes ! May 27 , 1971 - April 25, 2002
(via stillinthequiet)
First time driving in ten months
“So how did it go?”
thanks for asking though.
(Source: leminusculesgirl, via fuckyeah1990s)
gpoy
(Source: catelynstarking)
(Source: iseebeautyinallthings, via fuckyeahalexmorgan)
NOOOOOOOOO TYRION MY PRINCE
Azealia Banks - 1991
(Source: allyouladiespopyopussylikedis, via bad-dominicana)
i hate when people post their racist/cissexist/sexist/classist perspective as “unpopular opinion.”
no your opinion isn’t unpopular. actually your opinion~~ is the foundation of the society in which we live.
your stance is not novel.
you are not unique~~~.
you are a carbon copy of those who thrive off systematic hate, kept alive by mindless drones like yourself.
a bridge is waiting for you to fall off it.
(via bad-dominicana)
Marina Keegan: Song for the Special
How do you talk about someone after they die when you knew them, but not that well? When they lived below you in the same tiny apartment building but you never really talked except for that one time, a week ago, and you had so many of the same friends but you wouldn’t really have called her your friend? Marina Keegan was just — a girl I knew. I knew her and I was writhingly jealous of her, all the time, because she wrote things like this that knew me better than I knew myself, and how fucking unfair is that? I would go to see her plays and I would sit there in awe and I would admit, through my consuming jealousy, that they were amazing. That her work was always amazing, because it dealt in hopes and fears better than “Girls” could even get close to and I was jealous of that and that she was beautiful and smart and even the furniture I would notice through the open door to her living room was perfectly vintage and I heard she found it for free, on the street. One time she came to my apartment holding my cat. He’d escaped and they’d been hanging out in her apartment and she brought him back and I thanked her and we smiled at each other and she was even better at getting along with my cat than I was. And none of this is to say that Marina Keegan was perfect, it’s to say that everything she said and feared and hoped — about art, and legacies, and jealousy — was so real. I was jealous of the way she wrote about jealousy. And all the tragedy of all of this is embodied in how we know, already, that she did do something, and she will be remembered. My jealousy is one tiny part of the trace she’s left. My friend just sent me a file of her short stories. I read a play of hers today. She’s still speaking, and I’m still jealous, and Marina Keegan was just a girl I knew but you didn’t have to be her best friend to know beyond a shadow of a doubt that she did something.
(via whistlesing)
(via roundtop)
Jacob spoke first.
“I want to know if my hair is just like yours,” he told Mr. Obama, but so quietly that the president asked him to speak again.
Jacob did, and Mr. Obama replied, “Why don’t you touch it and see for yourself?” He brought his head level with Jacob, who hesitated.
“Touch it, dude!” Mr. Obama said.
As Jacob, who was 5, patted the presidential crown, Mr. Souza snapped.
“So, what do you think?” Mr. Obama asked.
We’re so young. We’re so young. We’re twenty-two years old. We have so much time. There’s this sentiment I sometimes sense, creeping in our collective conscious as we lay alone after a party, or pack up our books when we give in and go out – that it is somehow too late. That others are somehow ahead. More accomplished, more specialized. More on the path to somehow saving the world, somehow creating or inventing or improving. That it’s too late now to BEGIN a beginning and we must settle for continuance, for commencement.
When we came to Yale, there was this sense of possibility. This immense and indefinable potential energy – and it’s easy to feel like that’s slipped away. We never had to choose and suddenly we’ve had to. Some of us have focused ourselves. Some of us know exactly what we want and are on the path to get it; already going to med school, working at the perfect NGO, doing research. To you I say both congratulations and you suck.
For most of us, however, we’re somewhat lost in this sea of liberal arts. Not quite sure what road we’re on and whether we should have taken it. If only I had majored in biology…if only I’d gotten involved in journalism as a freshman…if only I’d thought to apply for this or for that…
What we have to remember is that we can still do anything. We can change our minds. We can start over. Get a post-bac or try writing for the first time. The notion that it’s too late to do anything is comical. It’s hilarious. We’re graduating college. We’re so young. We can’t, we MUST not lose this sense of possibility because in the end, it’s all we have.
"From “The Opposite of Loneliness,” by Marina Keegan, 1990-2012
You deserved so much more time. I’m so sorry.
(via roundtop)
We’ve learned, in the worst way possible, that we don’t know how much time we have. No matter how young we are. And that’s fucking terrifying. I wish she could have had more.
(via withagrainasalt)
What a coincidence. I watched this ep last night.
(Source: hanksypanky, via queercore)
