This isn't a tumblr... it's paper mache.

You shouldn’t fall in love with someone unless you are sure that you have room for them in your life forever, and you shouldn’t keep the pencils just next to the Scotch tape if you are made at all uneasy by the notion that all the gifts you ever give will have eraser shavings all pressed and suffocating on the wrapping paper.

I once told a boy that he was the only person I’d believed had ever been in love with me. What I meant was, “You are the only person that has ever been willing to put up with absolutely anything from me,” but even that wouldn’t have been right. Maybe, “You are the only one in my life right now that will still touch me softly when I have proven to be nothing but cruel,” or, “I am such a miserable, lonely person, and I have learned to manipulate and tear at anything that might temporarily help me to forget that I am forever scraped away of my top layer of skin, and you somehow don’t seem to mind my incessant ripping away at you. You remain inexplicably devoted to that helping to forget,” or even, “At this moment, we are lying in your bed, and there is a part of me that believes that that means something.”

He doesn’t answer my calls anymore.

There is a man in New Jersey that does not know what I mean when I say that my dinner tastes metallic, like blood. There is a man in England that does not know what I mean when I say that my face feels chapped around the edges and tapped out. There is a man in Jordan that knows only my name and how to play the violin. There is a man in my bed that does not know what I mean when I say that there is a man who knows what I mean when I say that I am not sure what I am, but I don’t know where he is.

In each of your paranoias, there is some truth. No matter what they tell you, there is no freedom or comfort that comes with acknowledging this. There is a virility, there is an insurgence, there is an angry fever, but there is no freedom, and there is no comfort.

You are such a tiny thing, and you hold such heavy guilt. I see it as seeping through the pores in your long face, as streamers of pus that shoot out but stay connected. It is always just beneath your skin, and it is loud so that you cannot even ever hear the forgiveness. It must be such a thing to be you and never know that you are so much more than what you have done.

Somewhere in the multiverse you are, a world is ending. Its earth quakes and water rushes, and it is starting to crack and crumble at the core. You can connect this, if you’d like, to the feeling you have now of having hit your head (at your birthday party) on the corner of something sharp and the warmth of the blood at the surface and the shiver of all eyes on you. You can connect it to when you were 14 and falling in love. You can connect it to a foreign war someone mentioned to your mother when you were in utero, to the spidering of glass in the car accident that will one day kill you, to everything, anything, nothing. It doesn’t matter. You’re right. It doesn’t matter.

But you should never think that it means that you don’t.



The Astonishing Annual Red Crab Migration

Named one of the planet’s most breathtaking migrations, the Christmas Island red crab exodus is a natural phenomenon that continues to astonish.

Making it onto CNN Travel’s recent list of the “10 most spectacular wildlife migrations,” the island’s annual red crab migration is an astounding event that involves the movement of millions of vividly colored crabs as they leave their in-land homes to breed and release eggs into the sea.

An Australian territory, Christmas Island lies some 2,600 kilometers north-west of Perth in the middle of the Indian Ocean. While just 1,500 people live there, it is home to an estimated 120 million crabs.

This reminds me of this nightmare I used to have all the time when I was a little kid. On paper it doesn’t seem that bad, but there used to be fish everywhere: fish floating in midair in high numbers, fish all over the ground flopping around. And the scary part was I had to deal with the inevitable, that one, they would end up getting too close to my mouth, and two,  I would end up killing quite a few of them. Statistically speaking, It would be impossible in this situation not to be a fish murderer. I just couldn’t handle that.     

(Source: odditiesoflife)

Just because I have
moved on does not mean that I’ve
gotten over you

*eats you out as a friend*
I’m not going to censor myself to comfort your ignorance.
Jon Stewart  (via prisy666)

(Source: ghostisborn)


"It is hard to be human."

It’s hard to want to kiss you. You are pliable in all the best ways and strong in ways you can’t even see. Your mouth is small, and you taste like the air around the place where I was born and will die. You are lovely. I know that I have not always treated your skin with respect, but it is precious and cosmic and smells just sweetly.

It’s hard to want to hold you. I can remember what it’s like to sleep next to you and how perfectly we fit together, even though you wouldn’t think. I can feel my arm around you and your breathing. I want to touch you so you know that you are loved. No one will ever love you the way that I love you because I love you on every imaginable plane of existence. Even though sometimes it is hard to love you on this particular one, and I have not always done it with the reverence you deserve. That’s just because I can’t quite get the hang of being human.

It’s hard to know you are the best thing I will ever know. It makes my hands shake in the night when I am lying awake and wondering if you know how pretty are you, if you are feeling it as insistently as I am. It makes me cry to think that someday’s world will never know how soft you are or what it is to love you. I can’t imagine a life without you in it. I can’t imagine beauty without you as the essence of it. There is nothing else like you.

It’s hard to want you to be happy. If every moment of your life were filled with joy and love and oneness, it would be less than you deserve. You are Good. I want your every cell to vibrate with the knowledge of your own radiance. You give off so much, so much. Sometimes, I know, it is hard to be you. I worry that you will take in too much of the hurt of this world. I want to shield you from that, but I also want you to feel it. I want to feel it filtered through you, to feel everything filtered through you. It is a selfish want; life and pain and love and nothingness are so impossibly beautiful when they are filtered through you, and I want nothing more than to feel that always, everyday, forever. It’s hard to think that I may not be the Right Thing to make you happy.

It is hard to even know you. It’s hard to remember you, naked and stretching above our shared bed in freedom with the sun shining, and I swear I saw it sparkling on your skin when it recognized you were its very own child. I swear I heard the daylight laughing in your curls when it saw the way you came together. It’s hard to remember holding your shaking body in its pleasure and its tragedy, falling apart even as you secure the connections. It’s hard to know what I can bring to life in you.

It’s hard when you are far. Having human interactions with you is the problem. You are both the hive and the honey dripping. You are everything. When everything is far away from you, it’s hard. In the moonlight riding bikes, in the sunshine in the sand, in the mountains, in the forest, the way you can find something when anyone else would have found nothing, the bright of your eyes, the wanting. There is a whole world to experience, and you make me so acutely need to experience it with you.

It’s hard to be human, but oh— you make it easy.



people who complain about no jobs are people who are too lazy to get off the couch, put the bong down and go wait in the unemployment line.

I don’t even have WORDS for how stupid this chick is.

Oh my god my favorite kind of tumblr personality. Instafollow.

(Source: strangedecay)


Happy Valentine’s day


Happy Valentine’s day

(Source: 103312)



I keep trying to sugarcoat my acid tongue.
i say things like
"i can’t help but think that if i’d tried to love you
in summer
something very different might have bloomed,”
and he laughs bemusedly to appease me
but i guess everyone
stops wanting
to kiss someone else on the mouth sometime—
and that’s just fine.

I will keep my tongue intact. You are at home fostering ideas of trying to get yourself to hate me again. (I am ridiculous.)

Okay, wait. I still remember when you were sitting on the back porch, drunk. “I’m sure you know,” you said, “that I’m quite fond of you.” (I didn’t know. I never know.) There is loving someone, and then there is having a connection, then there is having a relationship, and there are many other things as well. I still remember when on a deflated mattress, it was the last time.

Interaction and proper ventilation. You will never find a more wretched specimen. It is not a toy.

I don’t know very much about the vibrations of anything. I don’t know much about consciousness or normal neural firings or fascination. I know about aborted plans and pregnant doubt. I know that I have spent more than half of my post-pubescent life wanting you. I am iridescent, but I will keep my tongue intact.

I’m not going to hold any illusions or anyone’s breath. I can’t help but wonder if some people are just like that, consistent. I’m not. There’s nothing on the other side of that door.

Negative buoyancy is a terrifying concept, for example. My understanding evolves, but it doesn’t necessarily grow. I don’t want to argue with anyone, ever. I can’t help that my voice gets louder when I am saying what I mean.

But your voice gets louder when you’re not quite sure. When you’re not quite behind what you are saying, you are putting up this front of volume to try to fool us into thinking there is meaning when there isn’t. I can’t stand the sound of my own voice, even when I am trying to be something else.

I am underwhelmed by so much and overwhelmed by so much. It’s a difference in volume, I think. If I were leaving, I would leave quietly.

Ken Ham’s “Creationism” is an Affront to God


It’s been a hell of a week, critiquing the overall Nye/Ham debate, then critiquing Bill Nye’s performance, and now trying to pick apart Ken Ham’s.  I’m wiped.

Critiquing Bill Nye in the Creation debate was a pleasure, because it involved looking at how a guy who has his viewpoint figured out could’ve argued for that viewpoint a bit better.

Going after Ken Ham, though?  That’s a whole different story.  His arguments in the debate were so obtuse, so categorically illogical, that I actually found it painful to strain myself to pay attention to them.  It’s much easier to tune out nonsense than it is to actually focus on it, pick it apart, and figure out why it’s wrong.  The things that Ken Ham said in that debate weren’t arguments; they were the logical equivalent of line noise, something that the brain futilely tries to fit a pattern to despite there never having been a realistic ordering to it in the first place.


I’m getting a headache just writing the introduction.

In my piece about Bill Nye, I focused on reasons that his participation in, and arguments during, the debate were counterproductive and did not effectively advocate his cause.  I did this with arguments from philosophy of science and from the goals of scientific education.

As we saw the night of the debate, Ken Ham is immune to the philosophy of science because he challenges one of its central principles: the assumption that inferred observations in the present are indicative of universal states in the past.  I will explain why he is wrong about that, but the fact that he rejects this principle means I can’t validly engage the flaws in his argument from a purely philosophy of science standpoint.

Instead, I have to prove that he’s wrong using my knowledge of theology, and that’s exactly what I’m going to do.

And you know what?  He made it easy.

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(Source: swoozie)

So tired of stupid fights about nothing. Just drop it.