But let us get one thing straight: the best years of our lives are not behind us. They’re part of us and they are set for repetition as we grow up and move to New York and away from New York and wish we did or didn’t live in New York. I plan on having parties when I’m 30. I plan on having fun when I’m old. Any notion of THE BEST years comes from clichéd “should haves…” “if I’d…” “wish I’d…”
We’re so young. We’re so young. We’re twenty-two years old. We have so much time. There’s this sentiment I sometimes sense, creeping in our collective conscious as we lay alone after a party, or pack up our books when we give in and go out – that it is somehow too late. That others are somehow ahead. More accomplished, more specialized. More on the path to somehow saving the world, somehow creating or inventing or improving. That it’s too late now to BEGIN a beginning and we must settle for continuance, for commencement.
What we have to remember is that we can still do anything. We can change our minds. We can start over. Get a post-bac or try writing for the first time. The notion that it’s too late to do anything is comical. It’s hilarious. We’re graduating college. We’re so young. We can’t, we MUST not lose this sense of possibility because in the end, it’s all we have.
The Opposite of Loneliness by Marina Keegan
go read the whole thing.
It’s not only tragic that she died, cutting short a life with so much possibility and promise and life left to live, but I also think it’s incredibly tragic that it took her death to bring her words to so many people, myself included. But I’m grateful that I did find them, because they’re pretty amazing.
on sasha grey, american apparel models, and searching for the “real” thing
whenever i get an influx of followers, i try to follow back. the thing is, what usually ends up happening is my dashboard overflows with empty-eyed, thin, white, cisgendered hipster models, or sasha grey. i get angry, i unfollow more people than i really need to, and i quit tumblr for a little while.
i know that this is an ongoing conversation, but will someone please explain to me the appeal of these people? is it really attractive that someone with stringy, greasy hair and an empty face doesn’t seem to care about anything at all?
like, i get it. you want to represent the “cool” you on your blog. the you that is into pictures of topless, deadpan boys in the forest or a haunted house. but seriously? you don’t look jaded. you look ignorant as fuck. the world is shitty enough without your personal, tragic narrative of your disaffected youth.
apathy is not something one should be proud of—apathy is death. when i was at the lowest point of my depression, my apathy was all-consuming. here is the truth: it was terrifying. and i couldn’t stop thinking, “what if this is it? what if one day, i wake up, and realize that i never felt a thing?”
playing pretend with your indifference is foolish, and dangerous.
maybe i am just playing fast and loose with my feelings. today i found out a classmate of mine died over the weekend. we danced together, in a class two years ago, and he told me that i was a beautiful mover. he had absolutely no reservation in admitting this to me, when we barely knew each other—unabashed and real. that’s what it felt like.
call me crazy, but that’s what i love to see in people. fire, passion, feeling, and desire. i want you to tell me what you DO give a fuck about, i want you to laugh loudly and freely, i want you to tell me what you want from me—or to tell me what you don’t know if you want. i want you to show me that you care about things, because who has time for ennui and faking it?
wake up. wake up and tell me how you really feel. put away your cigarettes and blank stares. get angry or elated or horny or tearful. love a little, and live a lot. don’t buy into the “disinterested” aesthetic because i think you’re really fucking interesting. so show me your interests and you’re interesting, that you’ve got the “real” thing because it’s real for you, that you are a human who cares even when everything is screaming your impermanence.
and while you’re at it, wash your fucking hair.