Things I think of, and things I like.

Progression of neglect: Near completion. Almost completely sectioned and rolled.

Progression of neglect: Near completion. Almost completely sectioned and rolled.

Can’t decide which decision was worse this morning:

-Old, cold, pizza breakfast.

or

-Waking up at all.

It’s so simple.

Reblogged from ironandresingarage

It’s so simple.

Adventures in Retail: Glass Shop Edition

If you become emotionally attached to a delicate tool, I assume it’s a bit obvious that most of the time, dropping this frail extension of yourself onto a hard surface, will render an undesirable experience. I’ll assume it’s also implied that in purchasing an item of such fragility, certain precautions should be heeded in its use, to avoid stated experiences. But, what the hell do I know?

Potential customer of the day:

"Looking for anything specific?" I invite.

"Yeah, something that won’t break," guffawing to himself. Guffaw, guffaw. I’ve never heard that one before; you’re a real god-damned riot. "But seriously, do you have any that won’t break?" Glass is clearly indestructible, why else would you be replacing it?

In deluded empathy, “Well sir, I’m sorry. We don’t sell sippy-cups, or sippy-cup accessories.”

Wholly unamused, the man stared at me for the larger half of a minute, and marched back out to his miserable pipe-less life… or the glass shop down the street; as much as I care to, there’s no way I’ll ever know.

10/10 Customer satisfaction. Every time.

Last Chance
Hobart Smith
Blue Ridge Legacy

Reblogged from allisonwilliamsmusic

allisonwilliamsmusic:

Hobart Smith - Last Chance

Just learned this tune. Hobart’s version, of course… it’s so simple and fucking beautiful. I wish I was pickin’ it with my grandfather on his porch right now.

"Well, I’ll take up these pages and move on. Things will happen elsewhere. Things are always happening. It seems wherever I go there is drama. People are like lice—they get under your skin and bury themselves there. You scratch and scratch until the blood comes, but you can’t get permanently deloused. Everywhere I go people are making a mess of their lives. Everyone has his private tragedy. It’s in the blood now—misfortune, ennui, grief, suicide. The atmosphere is saturated with disaster, frustration, futility. Scratch and scratch—until there’s no skin left. However, the effect upon me is exhilarating. Instead of being discouraged, or depressed, I enjoy it. I am crying for more and more disasters, for bigger calamities, for grander failures. I want the whole world to be out of whack, I want everyone to scratch himself to death."

Henry Miller, Tropic of Cancer

This town, and my current living situation can be accurately equated to the watering of a dead plant.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

A very curious visitor crept up to my door. His name is Ghost.

A very curious visitor crept up to my door. His name is Ghost.

Guilt Parade
Cursed
One

cursed thursday

Letters of Note: Hardcase Survival Pinto Bean Sludge

Reblogged from lettersofnote

lettersofnote:

image

In 1973, whilst compiling the book, “John Keats’s Porridge: Favorite Recipes of American Poets,” Victoria McCabe asked the author and poet Edward Abbey to contribute his favourite recipe to the project. Thankfully, he agreed, and soon responded with the following — a recipe for “Hardcase…

This is actually some-what viable, and I’ve done something similar with a large group of people in the woods.

Ahhh… the woods.
I miss the woods.

Friend of mine got a nifty new lens. I have no idea what it is.

Friend of mine got a nifty new lens. I have no idea what it is.

From Little

This was wonderful to wake up to.

A realization culminated in the night.

  • A valued person: "After everything we've experienced and lived out there... what the fuck are we still doing back here?[in Reading]"
  • Me: "You're right, I have no fucking clue... I need to get rid of my belongings again."