YIPPIE KI AYE MOTHERFUCKER

Begging everyone on the internet to stop smoothing out their middle aged men and draw wrinkles for the love of god I promise it's so fun you'll love it Come into my wine cellar

Did you just DeWalt my fucking white

if i ever write something set in the united states im just going to do zero research whatsoever and make stuff up to sound cool it’s equality

the lush impenetrable jungles of massachusetts

i know it’s probably a bit problematic of me but i do kind of love it when a fictional character is clearly lgbt coded but too haunted/possessed/avenging a dead loved one/investigating a series of horrifying murders/undergoing a disturbing and painful metamorphosis/etc. to do anything about it

i love constantly evolving into a cooler version of myself

btw by cooler i don’t mean like. trendier or more conventionally attractive but a version of myself that feels more like an honest representation of myself and all the layers of myself that are shifting as i grow and learn more about myself and the world …. (which makes me hotter.)

I do wholeheartedly believe Wes Anderson is a sick sick freak. I like his movies but I definitely think this guy has like a hidden room in his spacious french apartment that he slips into quietly each night and it is just filled with tiny little doll replicas of all the actors he's ever used in any of his movies and he puppets them around and mimicks their voices and shit. and sometimes he'll text Owen Wilson pictures of his little doll with a comb or something from an untraceable number and pair it with like "see how I take care of you Owen?" and then the following day Owen Wilson will find him at the service table and go, "Geez Wes look at this," and Wes will pretend to be all concerned and horrified but there is this calculating almost eager look in his eyes that unsettles Owen Wilson. and the next time Wes is having a little soiree with all his actors, his beloved beloved actors, maybe Owen Wilson will accidentally get lost on his way to the beautiful bathroom and find that little room and see all those dolls and his throat will hitch with horror. And before he can call Bill Murray or Adrian Brody to look a dark silhouette will appear in the doorway and Wes looks sort of resigned when he says, "I see you finally found my secret, Owen," and Owen Wilson will try and pretend that he's fine with it but they both know better. and Wes will go (the look in his eyes back again) "We both know this can't get out, right?" and he'll grin very suddenly and Owen Wilson will laugh along very nervously and leave the room and eat some brioche and when the evening is over he will rush over to his Prius and frantically click his keys but over the cobbles on the beautiful beautiful street there is the sound of footsteps. and tears are running down Owen Wilson's cheeks but he can't say a word and Wes, emerging from the shadows, will gently touch him on the shoulder and say, "look, I'll drive you to the airport, huh?" and Owen Wilson will try to refuse but they both know it's futile. and, halfway through the drive, Wes Anderson will smile and say, "I'll miss working with you" and then perfectly jump and roll out of the car, wiping off his corduroy pants, while Owen Wilson's Prius swerves into a local patisserie, bursting into flames

see, you and i? we’re like spunchbob and patrice

Gay

that’s his snail

wait! before you go, let me give you the Cowboy's Goodbye *kisses you passionately. with tongue.*

I do think the majority of us should strangle the shame that lives inside of us like wringing water from the rag until we are soft and dry and weightless