Katie drove by a convenience store. She explains to me
how many miles her car will take her before she has to stop
to fill up the tank, how she can go months without changing
the oil. I confuse the words miles and months, the way they each
mark time, one by snow, the other by skid marks, four each,

on the highway. I am in the car seat next to her, four of her fingernails are jagged and uneven, they catch on the knit of her sweater. I have seen Katie slam herself into her bedroom door
when she was angry, I touched the yellow blooming on the side
of her arm, asked if skin always turned like this when punished. She told me that I should record it while it’s still there, “cause when it’s gone,”
she said,
“it’s always gone.”

Katie drives faster than the other cars, asks me to throw
the wrapper of a bagel outside of my window. She points to the people standing on rooftops and swinging, “they are hammering
the shingles into place,” she said, lifting her finger up, “We
get ready for storms like that.” I nod because I have only seen
a tornado in the pictures. I don’t know if that’s the kind of storm
Katie is talking about,
I don’t know what else it could be.

We make up stories about the people directing traffic, “I bet his wife fucked her CEO boss at some big company,” Katie says, “and that’s why this guy looks so pissed as he’s waving us through.” I said,
“I bet he saw something he can’t not see, like someone he loved
got taken from him, like he’d rather be the guy in the big machine
but got stuck swaying the flag.” Katie didn’t look at me, she just lit up her cigarette, said, “it’s probably far less complicated
than you think it is.” Katie doesn’t think
that we both understand that feeling.

I like the long roads. I like the way Katie is stuck to her seat,
how close the door handle is to the steering wheel, how she couldn’t give herself a bruise if she wanted to. She asked, “if we drove ourselves into the ocean, would it feel anymore like home?”
I said, “we are months away from anything, anyway.” Katie
has bruises like birthmarks. When one fades, another comes, looking
as if it should have been there
in the first place.

written by The Alien and Katie Drive Down Route 100  (via stringourselvesup)

trying to get over my irrational mayo fear by eating potato salad but now I feel like I’m gonna vom

6End of summer chillin with my dad drinkin somethin with mango hoopin my face off typical day after OG put your hands in the air 

just got nominated for the ice bucket challenge.


50 followers away from ~1000~

(Source: velorums, via radatouille)


everything personal♡

I’m sorry, babe, but there’s some things I have to say. I’ve only got a few moments left.

I’m sorry for all the things I’ll never give you. I’ll never buy you another meatball sub with extra sauce — that was a big one! I’ll never make you smile. I just wanted us to be old together, just two old farts laughin’ at each other as our bodies fell apart, together at the end by that lake in your painting. That was our Heaven, see? There’s lots of things to miss: books, naps, kisses, and fights! God, we had some great ones.

Thank you for those. Thank you for every kindness. Thank you for our children. For the first time I saw them. Thank you for being someone I was always proud to be with. For your guts. For your sweetness. For how you always looked, for how I always wanted to touch you. You were my life.

I apologize for every time I failed you.

Especially this one.

written by Chris Nielsen (as portrayed by Robin Williams) in What Dreams May Come (via timelesswordpricelesspictures)