The Incredible Adventures of a Flibbertigibbet

What am I doing with my summer?

Wed, 05 Jun 2013 04:56:18 -0400

Why I am sitting around in my filthy pjs at 4am watching Rachel Maddow make Stingers, champagne cocktails, obituary cocktails and talk about how awful mint juleps can be.

Yep. Its going to be an interesting summer.

geekymerch: (via Men Cufflinks Bookworm Reader cuff links for...

Wed, 01 May 2013 16:29:38 -0400

geekymerch:

(via Men Cufflinks Bookworm Reader cuff links for him by BeautySpot)

geekymerch: These adorable Star Wars plushies can be found at...

Wed, 01 May 2013 16:29:04 -0400

geekymerch:

These adorable Star Wars plushies can be found at Peludossa on Etsy!

Kelli Dunham is following me! :-)

Tue, 30 Apr 2013 23:23:27 -0400

AsdffgjklSjdjfjgj

That is all.

Internet stalker

Tue, 30 Apr 2013 23:02:59 -0400

When is that fine line crossed, between genuine curiosity and outright stalking? And if someone posts online in open, public forums, does that give others the right (or does it make it ok) to comb through those forums?

Drinking

Fri, 08 Mar 2013 21:57:08 -0500

Poured too much Creme due Menthe. This is going to take a while to drink.

Creme the Menthe

Fri, 08 Mar 2013 21:45:47 -0500

Ever had Creme the Menthe? It is much like drinking Listerine, except it’s supposed to get you drunk.

Diz uma lenda que o Sol e a Lua sempre foram apaixonados um pelo outro, mais nunca podiam ficar juntos, pois a Lua só nascia ao por do Sol. Sendo assim, Deus na sua bondade infinita criou o eclipse como prova que não existe no mundo um amor impossível.

Mon, 07 Jan 2013 00:01:41 -0500

Photo

Sun, 06 Jan 2013 23:55:38 -0500

iamadynamicfigure: The Gulabi gang is a group of women...

Sun, 06 Jan 2013 23:40:12 -0500

iamadynamicfigure:

The Gulabi gang is a group of women vigilantes active across North India. It is named after the pink saris worn by its members. The group was founded as a response to widespread domestic abuse and other violence against women. Gulabis visit abusive husbands and beat them with bamboo sticks. In 2008, they stormed an electricity office and forced officials to restore the power they had cut to extract bribes. The Gulabis have also stopped child marriages and protested dowry and female illiteracy.

Photo

Sat, 05 Jan 2013 16:53:14 -0500

"At the temple, there is a poem called “Loss” carved into the stone. It has three words, but the poet..."

Thu, 03 Jan 2013 01:31:55 -0500

“At the temple, there is a poem called “Loss” carved into the stone. It has three words, but the poet has scratched them out. You cannot read Loss, only feel it.”

- Sayuri (Memoirs of a Geisha)

"I was holding my heart in the palms of my nervous hand. My heart had two hundred broken..."

Thu, 03 Jan 2013 01:30:58 -0500

“I was holding my heart in the palms of my nervous hand.

My heart had two hundred broken windows
glass covering the floor
and amazing light in almost every room.

My heart was beating like a pillow fight —
feathers were flying everywhere.
I couldn’t stop crying for all those birds.

I could not stop crying.

I planted my heart in the raised bed in your bedroom.
Pansies bloomed all night.
You called me “pretty” and I didn’t flinch.
I knew I could still be your boyfriend
and tell you my grandmother sewed my prom dress
stitch by stitch, with her own hands.
The finest suit couldn’t have made me
more proud.

Our hearts beat so loud the neighbours think we’re fucking
when I’m just trying to find the nerve to touch your face.

You don’t ask God how long this will last.
I don’t care about any of the words on the map besides
You are here.

You are here
listening to me tell you
I’ve been stung by a bee only twice in my life —
both times I was stung in the mouth.
I still carry the stingers under my tongue
So I never forget
where honey comes from.

Sweet sweet siren
I imagine you ruining Oklahoma farm boys
in the beds of their daddies’ trucks.
I want to take you to church
and show you what I can do to your confession booth
on a Saturday night.

You already know
how many love poems I have written to women who are not you.
You already know that every word was true.
There is still a tandem bicycle in my garage
I know I will never have the heart to ride or sell.
So I know you know
I am not wondering why you kept your married name.

I am here watching you do your laundry
and I want to match your socks
just so you can put them on and I can take them off.
Take everything off.

Yes, I have a history of fainting.
No, I wasn’t lying when I told you
I am going to be more difficult than anyone you have ever dated.
It has been years since my life was a picnic
where I wasn’t freaking out about the possible gluten allergies,
of the pigeons being fed bread in the park.
But you will always feel safe knowing
I will never make a piñata of your heart.
You will never have to lose yourself to win me over.

Tell me you’re a liar —
I will say I already know
you are a master yogi
when it comes to stretching the truth.
But I’ll be willing to bet that
we both have a history of downward dog,
and sometimes you’ve got to bend to keep seeing
God isn’t always as clean as a whistle
but that train is something I can worship
if only because it keeps showing up.

I am at your station saying:
If i were a painter
I would paint every billboard in this city bright white
buy a projector
and take you to a new drive in movie every single night.
If I were an oven mitt
I would say never touch anything hot without me.

Obviously.

I am going to do stupid things.
I once sold my saxophone to help pay for college.
I once smashed a violin to bits on our second date.

When I said: “So your vagina —
it’s really rad that babies have come out of it.”
What I meant to say is:
Holy shit. You’ve given birth.
I can’t imagine anything sexier
than a woman checking her children’s homework.

For the record: you are getting straight-A’s in chemistry class.
For the record: I am flunking math.
It has been too few days to add up to me saying:
Yes, I am going to permanently fuck up your lip stick.
Yes, I am going to throw tantrums through your tidy heart.
Yes, I am going to fall apart at your mother’s dinner table,
over green beans and lentils and somebody’s sensible doubt.

Yes, I am gonna run you a bath.

That is to say I am gonna run into the rain
over and over, with an empty glass,
til you are soaking in the certainty
that nothing falls in vain.

Wherever we land, there will always be this “they” —
where I turn off that song of my sadness, and your shame,
where I stop asking what all the crying has been about.

All I know is my name
could rust entirely away
in your perfect mouth.”

- Andrea Gibson, Pansies [x + x] (via tenthousandstars)

Just trying out this app. Looks like it works OK.

Wed, 02 Jan 2013 00:03:54 -0500

Just trying out this app. Looks like it works OK.

Words of the Day

Tue, 01 Jan 2013 20:24:32 -0500

1. Sybarite - a person devoted to pleasure and luxury

2. Concupiscence- strong desire; especially : sexual desire - Merriam-Webster

Simple Pleasures

Tue, 01 Jan 2013 18:43:48 -0500

Bread fresh out of the oven
Cheese
Dark, dark chocolate

The Flibbertigibbet's Adventures in Virtual School Again.

Sun, 23 Sep 2012 22:31:01 -0400

I thought I was done with virtual school. You thought so too, no? After all the awful things that happened last time around. But alas, virtual school is upon me again, and more than a year since the last time, it has gotten no better. This time, I take the second part of United States History and Speech. Ugh.

I am on page one of USHB and already, there are facedesk moments. In the very first page, the author has already managed to imply that the Bible is truth only because it got passed down from one person to another (one can only assume this author was deprived of a childhood and never played a game of telephone). Also, saying that they don’t mean to imply that history is like a sport, but let us tell you how history is like a sport.

motherjones: bestrooftalkever: mcdavis: Ouch. Every. Four....

Mon, 27 Aug 2012 18:42:02 -0400

motherjones:

bestrooftalkever:

mcdavis:

Ouch.

Every. Four. Years.

UHMYEAHABOUTTHAT TDCF YIV BOIKNJ!

padafuckyou: I do. But the motherfuckers say we can’t, ‘cause...

Thu, 23 Aug 2012 00:34:52 -0400

padafuckyou:

I do.
But the motherfuckers say we can’t, ‘cause you’re a girl and I’m a girl (or at least something close) so the most we can hope for is an uncivil union in Vermont but I want church bells – I want rosary beads; I want Jesus on his knees. I want to walk down the aisle while all the patriarchy smiles – well, I guess that’s not true. But I do want to spend my life with you. And I want to know that fifty years from now when you’re in a hospital room and getting ready to die, when visiting hours are for family members only, I want to know they’ll let me in to say goodbye. ‘Cause I’ve been fifty years memorizing how the lines beneath your eyes form rivers when you cry and I’ve held my hand like an ocean at your cheek saying, “Baby, flow to me.” ‘Cause fifty years I’ve watched you grow with me – fifty years of you never letting go of me, through nightmares and dreams and everything in between from the day I said “Buy me a ring.” Buy me a ring that will turn my finger green so I can imagine our love is a forest – because I wanna get lost in you. And I swear I grew like a flower every hour of the fifty years I was with you – and that’s not to say we didn’t have bad days. Like the day you said, “That checkout girl was so sweet.” And I said I’d like to eat that checkout clerk and you said, “Baby that’s not funny” and I said “Baby, maybe you could take a fucking joke now and then,” and I slept on the couch that night. But when morning came, you were laughing. Yeah, there were times we were both half-in and half out the door but I never needed more than the stars of your grin to lead me home. For fifty years, you were my favorite poem and I’d read you every night knowing I might never understand every word but that’s okay – ‘cause the lines of you were the closest thing to holy I’d ever heard. You’d say, “This kind of love has to be a verb.” We are paint on a slick canvas – it’s gonna take a whole lot to stick but if we do, we’ll be a masterpiece. And we were – from the beginning living in towns that frowned at our hand-holding, folding up their stares like hate notes into our pockets so we could pretend they weren’t there. You said, “Fear is only a verb if you let it be. Don’t you dare let go of my hand.” That was my favorite line. That and the time we saw two boys kissing on the streets of Kansas, and we both broke down crying, because it was Kansas and what are the chances of seeing anything but corn in Kansas? We were born again that day. I cut your cord and you cut mine, and the chords of time played like a concerto of hope so we could feel the rope unwind, feel the noose of hate loosening, loosing from the years of “People like you aren’t welcome here. People like you can’t work here. People like you cannot adopt” – so we had lots of cats and dogs and once even a couple of monkeys you taught to sing, “Hey, hey, we’re the monkeys.” You were crazy like that – and I was crazy about you. On nights you couldn’t sleep, I’d lay awake for hours counting sheep for you and you would rewrite the rhythm of my heartbeat with the way you held me in the morning, resting your head on my chest and I swear my breath turned silver the day your hair did, like I swore marigolds grew in the folds of my eyelids the first time I saw you and they bloomed the first time I watched you dance to the tune of our kitchen kettle in our living room in a world that could have left us hard as metal, we were soft as nostalgia together. For fifty years, we feathered wings too wide to be prey and we flew through days strong and through days fragile as sand-castles at high tide and you would fold your love into an origami firefly and you’d throw it through my passageways until all my hidden chambers were filled with lanterns, now, every trap door, every pore of my heart is open because of you – because of us – so I do, I do, I do want to be in that room with you. When visiting hours are for family members only, I want to know they’ll let me in. I want to know they’ll let me hold you while I sing, “ba be de bop de ba ba, baby I’m so in love with you. I’m so in love with you. Ba be de bop de ba bop be be da bop ba – goodbye.”

"Nobody tells an actor, ‘you’re playing a strong-minded man.’ We assume that men are strong-minded. A..."

Mon, 20 Aug 2012 02:34:52 -0400

“Nobody tells an actor, ‘you’re playing a strong-minded man.’ We assume that men are strong-minded. A strong-minded woman is a different animal.”

- Meryl Streep, on being told that she often plays “strong-minded women.”

#god had a second child #her name is meryl streep

(via bathcrone)