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he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
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Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her
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@a-nergia

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Mira Gonzalez is killing me right now.
Men message you after eight months like âWe havenât spoken in a minuteâ yeah and weâre not gonna speak! Keep it moving
âI knew what depression was. Iâve known what it was since I was at least sixteen. That was the first year in which I unequivocally wished for death: not in a melodramatic emo-kid way, but in a lumpen, constant-state-of-passive- suicidal-ideation way. I did not act out. I didnât drink, do drugs, sleep around, or even date. I abhorred physical contact and wondered if I might be asexual; thatâs how disinterested and disgusted I felt at the thought of anyone embracing me, kissing me, taking my clothes off. I was an underweight overachiever with no school spirit. âYouâre so laid-back,â my friends would say. I wasnât; I just had zero affect.â
â Suzanne Rivecca, Ugly Bitter and True

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sometimes i feel like i'm at a stage in my life that most ppl my age were in at least five years ago and it makes me feel so set back.. like i've missed out on my own life
Feels selfish to want more consistency from certain people but then I remember reciprocity in relationships shouldnât feel like a privilege to be met with only when convenient for them
kill the clock in ur head
all clocks are bastards
no clocks no masters
âWalter Benjamin quotes reports that during the Paris Commune, in all corners of the city of Paris there were people shooting at the clocks on the towers of the churches, palaces and so on, thereby consciously or half-consciously expressing the need that somehow time has to be arrested; that at least the prevailing, the established time continuum has to be arrested, and that a new time has to begin â a very strong emphasis on the qualitative difference and on the totality of the rupture between the new society and the old.â Liberation from the Affluent Society, Herbert Marcuse (1967)
âThis is SATANâS HANDCUFF.â - Rev. Ivan Stang, immediately before smashing a wristwatch with a sledgehammer at an early SubGenius Devival.
âThe clock â not money â emerged as the key technology for measuring the value of work. This distinction is crucial because itâs easy to think that working for wages is capitalismâs signature. Itâs not: in thirteenth-century England a third of the economically active population depended on wages for survival. That wages became a decisive way of structuring life, space, and nature owes everything to a new model of time.
By the early fourteenth century, the new temporal model was shaping industrial activity. In textile-manufacturing towns like Ypres, in what is now Belgium, workers found themselves regulated not by the flow of activity or the seasons but by a new kind of time â abstract, linear, repetitive. In Ypres, that work time was measured by the townâs bells, which rang at the beginning and end of each work shift. By the sixteenth century, time was measured in steady ticks of minutes and seconds. This abstract time came to shape everything â work and play, sleep and waking, credit and money, agriculture and industry, even prayer. By the end of the sixteenth century, most of Englandâs parishes had mechanical clocks. In the twentieth century, as assembly lines in Detroit churned out Henry Fordâs Model T, âscientific managersâ were measuring units of work called therbligs (an anagram of their developersâ last name, Gilbreth): each one a mere one-thousandth of a second.
Policing time was [and is] central to capitalismâs ecology.â
Raj Patel and Jason W Moore
âThe ultimate and perhaps most significant conversion of reality into numbers is the measurement of time. Clocks do to time what name and number do to the material world: they reduce it, make it finite. And what is time, but life itself? Time is experience, process, the flow of being. By measuring time, by converting it into numbers, we rob it of its infinitude and uniqueness in precisely the same way that nouns and numbers reduce the physical world. Time measurement turns a succession of unique moments into just so many seconds, minutes, and hours, and denies the particularity of each personâs subjective experience of them.
âŚIn effect, clocks turn time into another standardized, interchangeable part of the World Machine, facilitating the engineering of the world. Only time thus devalued is a conceivable object of commerce. Otherwise, who would sell their moments, each infinitely precious, for a wage? Who would reduce time, i.e. life, to mere money? Leibnitzâ merciless phrase, âTime is money,â encapsulates a profound reduction of the world and enslavement of the spirit.
It is not surprising that the revolutionaries of Parisâs 1830 July Revolution went around the city smashing its clocks. The fundamental purpose of clocks is not to measure time, it is to coordinate human activity. Aside from that it is a fiction, a pretense: as Thoreau said, âTime measures nothing but itself.â Smashing the clocks represents a refusal to sell oneâs time, a refusal to schedule oneâs life or to bring it into conformity with the needs of specialized mass society. Further, it represents a declaration that âI will live my own life,â establishing the ascendancy of now.â
Charles Eisenstein
âThe clock, as Lewis Mumford has pointed out, represents the key machine of the machine age, both for its influence on technology and its influence on the habits of men. Technically, the clock was the first really automatic machine that attained any importance in the life of men.â
George Woodcock, The Tyranny of the Clock
(I highly recommend reading that one.)
so january is almost over huh? whatâs next? february? give me a break
a fragment of ourselves returning v, 2018 by beatrice wanjiku

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It feels so good to just give into the destruction
imagine fucking an e-boy and he keeps all the silver chains and dangly earrings on and it just sounds like ur cramming around in ur jewelery box or coin purse skskdhjdjdd
As an e-boy myself, I can assure you that my soft boy moans sound so fucking pretty mixed with these noises. Try me.
âI used to consider absence a lack. And I ignorantly regretted that lack. Today I have nothing to regret. There is no lack in absence. Absence is a presence in me. And I feel it, a perfect whiteness, so close and cozy in my arms that I laugh, dance, and invent glad exclamations, since absence, this embodied absence, canât be taken away from me.â
Carlos Drummond de Andrade, tr. by Mark Strand, from âAbsence,â

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my left pinky is killing me and i can only use my joints to do things but i love them sm đĽş