I danced for 16 years, and I just think it will take 16 more years to finish grieving the loss I feel from it. I just need that something to fill that gap in my life but god it feels like I lost a dear friend and the only replacement I found just doesn’t feel the same because it isn’t the same and won’t ever be the same.
And I hate the way the sadness and longing and sudden urges to get up and improv to a good song just come out of nowhere and hit me like a train. Except not really out of nowhere….I installed that app timehop on my phone and when I try and look at it, pictures from my recitals keep coming up and they hurt. Not a lot but just enough to rip off a chunk of my scab and make me cry again. I guess I should delete that app now and cry.
Also I was really skinny and healthy then and now I’m overweight and struggling to loose the weight to stay healthy.
I read several dozen stories a year from miserable, lonely guys who insist that women won’t come near them despite the fact that they are just the nicest guys in the world.
..I’m asking what do you offer? Are you smart? Funny? Interesting? Talented? Ambitious? Creative? OK, now what do you do to demonstrate those attributes to the world? Don’t say that you’re a nice guy — that’s the bare minimum.
“Well, I’m not sexist or racist or greedy or shallow or abusive! Not like those other douchebags!”
I’m sorry, I know that this is hard to hear, but if all you can do is list a bunch of faults you don’t have, then back the fuck away..
..Don’t complain about how girls fall for jerks; they fall for those jerks because those jerks have other things they can offer. “But I’m a great listener!” Are you? Because you’re willing to sit quietly in exchange for the chance to be in the proximity of a pretty girl (and spend every second imagining how soft her skin must be)? Well guess what, there’s another guy in her life who also knows how to do that, and he can play the guitar. Saying that you’re a nice guy is like a restaurant whose only selling point is that the food doesn’t make you sick. You’re like a new movie whose title is This Movie Is in English, and its tagline is “The actors are clearly visible”.
“And how hard is it to land even a minimum-wage job? This year, the Ivy League college admissions acceptance rate was 8.9%. Last year, when Walmart opened its first store in Washington, D.C., there were more than 23,000 applications for 600 jobs, which resulted in an acceptance rate of 2.6%, making the big box store about twice as selective as Harvard and five times as choosy as Cornell. Telling unemployed people to get off their couches (or out of the cars they live in or the shelters where they sleep) and get a job makes as much sense as telling them to go study at Harvard.”—"Why Don’t the Unemployed Get Off Their Couches?" and Eight Other Critical Questions for Americans (via seriouslyamerica)
“When 12-year-old girls are watching something like the CW’s long-running campy drama One Tree Hill (which aired from 2003-2012), in which actors like 25-year-old Hilarie Burton played 17-year-old cheerleader Peyton Sawyer, they’re not seeing an accurate portrayal of their future on screen. They’re seeing a glamorized vision of some executive’s idealized version of high school instead. When a real 16-year-old cheerleader flips on the CW and sees fellow pompom shakers who look like Burton or costar Sophia Bush, also well beyond her high school years, they’re looking at themselves at wondering why they don’t look like that in their uniform. Here’s the secret: they didn’t when they were 16, either.”—
don’t you hate it when you’re reading a chapter and then it’s coming to its climax and omg what’s gonna happen, then woops, your eyes dart to the last line and you spoil yourself and hate yourself for it
this is why, in particularly intense reading situations, i physically put my hand over the bottom of the page so i can’t accidentally spoil myself.