Sure, Josh Groban does all sorts of Cool television appearances on Comedy Bang Bang and what have you, but this is still like my all time favorite thing which I find myself referencing in conversations a lot.
the other day I went to quimbys and resolved to live like a teenage girl again. leaf through all the zines. sit on the floor and read all the foreign fashion magazines. take all the free publications, from the alt weeklies to the college music rags. don’t judge, don’t be better than. read everything like it’s a clue on how to escape your town and finally find your people.
“I am too intelligent, too demanding, and too resourceful for anyone to be able to take charge of me entirely. No one knows me or loves me completely. I have only myself.”—Simone de Beauvoir (via wordsnquotes)
“There were many nights when I would worry myself out of a dead sleep and think Christ, I’m not doing it yet, and I’d think, doing what, and I’d think back, the thing I’m supposed to be doing, the special thing, I’m not special yet, and I’m going to die if I don’t do it, and I’d think well what is it but I refused to elaborate.”—The Only Time I’ve Ever Been To Connecticut | Mallory Ortberg (via christinefriar)
I’m sure when people think of depression, they imagine sadness. Like, a pimply teen sulking and sobbing in their poster-ed bedroom, or a pensive adult peering out a raindrop covered window (What are they thinking??) accompanied by side-effect listing narration.
Surely, that’s part of it. I have had hysterical fits of crying which lead to hyperventilation. I’ve felt despair and total sorrow and pain so deep and real and tangible I can’t describe. Like you’re being actively and literally ripped from your hopes for yourself. I’ve zoned out to one of those raindrop covered windows, and, honestly, I often think suicide is the only reasonable solution. But—and maybe this is just me—what I feel most is nothing.
It’s a complete lack of sensation. No ambition, no desire, like a constant boredom, yet with no want for activity. Want, I know now, is the essence of humanity (or maybe just the essence of being American?) and without it, shit’s bleak.
It took mental gymnastics to get out of bed to write this four paragraph nothing about nothing. People often introduce me as a writer, which is like a joke only I find funny. Because I know they say you should write every day, even if it’s garbled garbage, but I don’t want to. And I don’t want to reword that sentence so it doesn’t end with a preposition. I don’t want anything.