If your friend says to you ‘You’re being mean, you need to get laid,’ your problem is not sex. Your problems are that you might be acting like an asshole and your friends are definitely idiots. I have lived twenty-five years in this body by myself, and I feel pretty confident that, by now, my personality is staying as it is. I’m going to stay a little uptight and anxious. I’m going to continue enjoying plans and Post-its and clean, orderly spaces. And though nobody has been dumb enough to say anything close to ‘You need to get laid’ to my face, I resent the idea that anyone might think, if they knew my history, that I’d be slightly different by virtue of having a penis - however briefly - inside me. That is some phallocentric bullshit if I ever heard any. Hypothetical penises don’t make the rules I make the rules. I love the rules.
comment s’appelle un chien qui vend des médicaments?
why the fuck is this joke in french and why there is 26k notes am i missing something important
something really important
what do you call a dog that sells drugs?
yeah it’s really only funny in french
I love the smell of rain
when it hits hot pavement.
It’s the smell of my childhood,
of Miami afternoons,
of loving you.
And so it is,
every time the weather gets warm
I think of you.
Every year, a little older,
every memory a little more faded,
I learn different lessons
from the same old heartbreak.
This year I remember
how right I am to wait.
Because I want a love like ours.
I want someone to blow my mind,
to feel so enraptured
that I can’t imagine any other way.
I want to fall into someone completely,
and adore the ways they’re weird.
And I want to feel safe,
and loved as though there is no other option.
And remembering you
makes me prefer being alone
until I die,
if the only other choice
is a love less than that.