It’s been rolling slowly up behind you. A teal shadow licking at the backs of your heels. You always knew you’d die of kitsch. You knew you’d be punished for collecting photos of Gypsy wagons and refurbished Airstream trailers. For squirreling away pastel color palettes and whimsical wedding photography. The milk-glass cake stands. The Gerber daisies. The exposed vintage bulb hanging like a delicate but sturdy beacon above the matte white counter. A professor of yours once summarized the most frightening short story she had ever read: In the end, the woman who was afraid of everything bolts the bedroom door behind herself in relief, finally secure from the rest of the world. Then, from nothing, out of nowhere, she hears a chorus of voices in the darkness, ‘oh, there you are.’ Who wouldn’t wake one day, legs imprinted with the rough weave of your lawn chair, wrapped in nothing but a vintage half-apron for a blanket, the constant sugar headache taking hold, and hope for something more? Yes, you think, something is missing. Perhaps a chalkboard wall?

It’s been rolling slowly up behind you. A teal shadow licking at the backs of your heels.

You always knew you’d die of kitsch.

You knew you’d be punished for collecting photos of Gypsy wagons and refurbished Airstream trailers. For squirreling away pastel color palettes and whimsical wedding photography.

The milk-glass cake stands. The Gerber daisies. The exposed vintage bulb hanging like a delicate but sturdy beacon above the matte white counter.

A professor of yours once summarized the most frightening short story she had ever read:

In the end, the woman who was afraid of everything bolts the bedroom door behind herself in relief, finally secure from the rest of the world. Then, from nothing, out of nowhere, she hears a chorus of voices in the darkness, ‘oh, there you are.’

Who wouldn’t wake one day, legs imprinted with the rough weave of your lawn chair, wrapped in nothing but a vintage half-apron for a blanket, the constant sugar headache taking hold, and hope for something more?

Yes, you think, something is missing. Perhaps a chalkboard wall?

Reblogged from apalelandscape with 428 notes / Permalink /


"It’s not that I’m necessarily emotionally attached to the 1,000 back issues of The New Yorker on my bedside table—it’s just that I might need them later. I mean, if print media is dying don’t I want to cradle its fragile body?"

Yipster, a must-read new favorite

And yes, I realize that I’ve left you all out in the cold lately, much like those New Yorkers on my bedside table. Life in general and my colon specifically has thrown all sorts of complications my way this past month. I’ll be back soon. Hopefully with reading glasses and a recycling bin.

Notes / Permalink /


Menus for Feelings

Oppressive Ennui in the Frozen Foods Aisle

Jalapeno poppers, Smucker’s Uncrustables

Abandoned Passive-Aggressive GChats

Wilted lettuce. Salted luncheon meats.

No Friends at the Potluck

Spanakopita with stray hair. Rice pudding to finish.

Secret Shame

Angel food cake slathered in mayonnaise.

1 note / Permalink /


During a break in work I browse endless poster sites, as if I don’t have enough screenshots in my “inspiration” folder labeled ohyesplease and dreamlifeyumyums. I click, click, click, landing on a print that looks strangely familiar. I’d forgotten that I bought it for a boy about three years ago before everything turned out wrong. It lives in a tube in the back of my closet, along with some lithographs from college and cards I can’t seem to toss. Just when I think the Internet is endless, I loop back around again. Is it time to stop and ask for directions? Buy your own here.

During a break in work I browse endless poster sites, as if I don’t have enough screenshots in my “inspiration” folder labeled ohyesplease and dreamlifeyumyums. I click, click, click, landing on a print that looks strangely familiar. I’d forgotten that I bought it for a boy about three years ago before everything turned out wrong.

It lives in a tube in the back of my closet, along with some lithographs from college and cards I can’t seem to toss.

Just when I think the Internet is endless, I loop back around again. Is it time to stop and ask for directions?

Buy your own here.

Notes / Permalink /


Last night, in a peak moment of desperation while shuffling the aisles of Fred Meyer in search of honey with which to soothe my lost voice, I purchased a Snuggie. Leopard print. Free booklight. I am not proud, merely comfortably resigned to my fate of eventually wearing pajama pants to the airport and eating elaborate fast food meals on public transportation.

Last night, in a peak moment of desperation while shuffling the aisles of Fred Meyer in search of honey with which to soothe my lost voice, I purchased a Snuggie. Leopard print. Free booklight. I am not proud, merely comfortably resigned to my fate of eventually wearing pajama pants to the airport and eating elaborate fast food meals on public transportation.

Notes / Permalink /