High School Movie Mutuals Cliques Introduction Like "that Is The Beatles Rpf Table.... We Don't Go There"

failed an exam, because i was too distracted staring at the professor during the term…

ideal ways for me to die

1. old age, peacefully in my sleep

2. after a long and illustrious career i am at a rooftop gala hosted in my honor. i am wearing a beautiful gown, holding a glass of red wine, standing by the railing. a scorned lover approaches and, after a passionate spat, they push me over the edge of the building. the wine glass goes flying, splattering their outfit in red as a visual metaphor for the blood on their hands. as i descend my gown flies around me like two beautiful wings, a bird in flight. a photographer on the street manages to take a photo before i hit the ground and that photo wins the pulitzer. a new york times think piece is released regarding whether or not it's moral to profit off a photo of someone's death. the think piece also wins a pulitzer.

3. sex accident.

sometimes you dont eat fruit for awhile and then you eat some fruit and you're like oh fuck its fruit

Françoise Hardy in Courrèges (1973)

Egon Schiele, Kneeling Girl, Resting on Both Elbows, 1917

Marianne Faithfull, 1967

You notice it first as April ends and May begins, a change in the season, not exactly a warming-in fact not at all a warming-yet suddenly summer seems near, a possibility, even a promise. You pass a window, you walk to Central Park, you find yourself swimming in the colour blue: the actual light is blue, and over the course of an hour or so this blue deepens, becomes more intense even as it darkens and fades, approximates finally the blue of the glass on a clear day at Chartres, or that of the Cerenkov radiation thrown off by the fuel rods in the pools of nuclear reactors. The French called this time of day "I'heure bleue." To the English it was "the gloaming." The very word "gloaming" reverberates, echoes—the gloaming, the glimmer, the glitter, the glisten, the glamour-carrying in its consonants the images of houses shuttering, gardens darkening, grass-lined rivers slipping through the shadows.

Joan Didion, Blue Nights

The illiterate is just like the blindfolded – misfortune and bad luck awaits him everywhere.

by Aleksei Aleksandrovich Radakov (1920)

Leonard Cohen - Book of Mercy