whiskey and jealousy

Noam Chomsky (via animatronicwitches)

… and this is how pizza became a vegetable

(via quitecamille)

(via kthrnmllr)

“The smart way to keep people passive and obedient is to strictly limit the spectrum of acceptable opinion, but allow very lively debate within that spectrum - even encourage the more critical and dissident views. That gives people the sense that there’s free thinking going on, while all the time the presuppositions of the system are being reinforced by the limits put on the range of the debate.”

Fiona Apple - Extraordinary Machine - 11 - Please, please, please

pennyforurthoughts:

november 2010

What’s this? A peek behind the iron curtain, or just syntax and fury…?
It’s late and the sun will be up soon/ish and my heart is pounding out of my chest, I can see it beating through my skin even though my nose has been clear for hours now; surely the remnants of cocktail cokefest remain in my system but that was then, this is the now time, and in the now time I’m trying to be better, to be normal and sober and happy, a good sorority girl one might even say; but I was told today that I will no longer be a greek in 24 hours; and so still the trying or the struggle or the “striving through fighting” as the jihadists describe their wars instead only reminds me why and how I descended into your so-called “valley” in the first place, and now I’m at the bottom of that valley and hanging on a precipice therein, a paradox of course but very real for all that. It’s crushing in its pointlessness, its lack of meaning, I the philosopher know all Philosophy is simply literary criticism anyway and, as an uneducated cynic, a fallen churchgoer, a privileged white bastion of unadulterated first-world luck, I have no basis for that criticism, no basis for worldly disgust and conscious self-loathing and near-total disillusionment; yet, here it is, here I stand, I can do no other.

Lonely Boy

The Black Keys - Lonely Boy
(via fate-of-faye)

(via apio)

There was a time when coke could make me forget anything. Any painful memories, those feelings of despair, hopelessness—all instantly replaced by a euphoric high, this wonderful calm, a brilliant satisfaction. A quick fix in a trusty green bag.

But inevitably, the bag would empty. No matter the time, I’d go get more, doing whatever I had to do to escape myself, to run away, if just for a moment.

Then it stopped working. No powder could silence the noise in my head. I chased its relief with increasing desperation, but it was gone—and I, and my feelings, were left in its wake.

A year clean; I’ve stopped chasing, stopped running. But I haven’t healed. Not totally. Not yet. I’m sick of breaking down, sick of crying, sick of scaring the one who loves me most. I’m sick of feeling like I’ll never get past my past. I want to fast-forward through these bad parts, to run my life like a horror film—to close my eyes during the really scary parts. But life, though terrifying, is not a movie. And besides, I’ve never been a good actress.

Here’s to hope, or something like it.

Strawberry (n)

a female who willingly exchanges sex or sexual favors for drugs