Alisa U Zemlji Chuda

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@localgoosegal

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month starting on a monday we have no excuse guys lets get to work and lock the fuck in
yk its actually very chic and avant garde to start on tuesday the second
many claim theres nothing more subversive and revolutionary than starting on wednesday the third
me: “sorry ): can’t come!! got so much to do at home”
me as soon as im home:
abalone

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we’ll be alright ♡
“but what if you abort the baby who’ll cure cancer?!” sir the baby who will cure cancer is an organic chemistry major who works at a Home Depot because you use AI to go through your resumes
"I am, somehow, less interested in the weight and convolutions of Einstein’s brain than in the near certainty that people of equal talent have lived and died in cotton fields and sweatshops." - Stephen Jay Gould, The Panda's Thumb: More Reflections in Natural History
But it was impossible for me to make the necessary effort to find myself again. No matter how many times I remembered the recent events in Les Bugues, it was another who had lived them, who had replaced me forever, waiting for tonight. And if I didn’t want to go mad, I had to find her again, she who had lived them, my sister, and embrace her. Les Bugues became distorted in spurts of successive images, cold, foreign. I didn’t recognize them anymore. I didn’t remember them anymore. I, that night, reduced to myself alone, had other memories. And yet even those, huddled in the dark, only tried to creep into my memory, to make themselves seen, to breathe for a moment. Memories from before me, from before my memories. [...] I’ve existed for twenty-five years. I was very little, then I grew and reached my size, the size I am now and that I’ll be forever. I could have died in one of the thousand ways people die, and yet I managed to cover twenty-five years of life, I am still alive, not yet dead. I breathe. From my nostrils emanates real breath, wet and warm. Without trying, I managed to die of nothing. It advances stubbornly, what seems halted, in this moment: my life. I hear the beat of my heart, and the palms of my hands feel like they belong to me: to me, to the one who endures my discovery in this moment. In this very moment as I hurtle with the armies of things—men, women, beasts, wheat, months … My life: a fruit I must have eaten some of without tasting it, without realizing it, distractedly. I am not responsible for this age or for this image. You recognize it. It must be mine. I’m all right with that. I can’t do anything differently. I am that girl, there, once and for all and forever. I started to be her twenty-five years ago. I can’t even hold myself in my arms. I am bound to this waist I cannot encircle. My mouth, and the sound of my laugh, never will I know them. Yet I wish I could embrace the girl that I am and love her. I look like other women. I’m a woman of rather ordinary appearance, I know. My age is an average age. You could say that I’m still young. My past, only others could tell me whether it’s interesting. I don’t know. It’s made up of days and things that I cannot bring myself to believe really happened to me. It’s my past, it’s my story. I can’t bring myself to be interested in it because it’s my own. It’s as though only tomorrow will really begin to include my past. Starting tomorrow night, time will count. For the moment, every past other than mine belongs to me more. Tiène’s past or Nicolas’s past, for example. It’s because no one warned me that I would live. If I had known that one day I would have a story, I would have chosen it, I would have lived with more care to make it beautiful and true so that I would like it. Now it’s too late. This story has begun, it leads me where it likes, I don’t know where and I have no say in it. Even though I try to push it away, it follows me; everything falls into place, everything decomposes in memory, and nothing new can be invented.
Marguerite Duras, The Easy Life, trans. Emma Ramadan and Olivia Baes
Orchids
SYMPATHY FOR LADY VENGEANCE 2005, dir. Park Chan Wook

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lesbian boxers and lovers Ann Marie Saccurato and Angel Bovee, 2006
death tw
My situationship's father just died, I don't know how to handle this. nobody in my close circle or even acquaintances know that I'm seeing him. it's been casual hook ups for like five months and we have a respectful rapport, but not really any emotional depth. At least on my side. But I was the first person he called. I want to support him, but I don't know what I'm doing.
dream again ///
childhood best friends house but pride theme again,, sparkly iridescent, cat art laying on the floor - I got to take one home. I wish it was real. I miss her. cut to warehouse. we walked through the whole thing, but I didn't even realize what was there. We entered the back room. It's all incense hundreds and hundreds of kinds. There's a photo of a man sitting on a car holding a circle mirror but the mirror is real (assemblage).
I need to make art. I need to connect with people who are from my past.

Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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I am so fucking fond of this team