Thought Catalog


How I Learned To Love A Juggalo

Posted: 10 Aug 2015 09:24 AM PDT

Brandon Stack Photography
Brandon Stack Photography

I grew up as a punk rocker and later transformed into a metal head. I always knew what a juggalo was, I even went to school with some, but I never really knew one.

For those who aren’t in the know, "Juggalo" is the name for a devoted fan of the horror rap group ICP (Insane Clown Posse). A "juggalette" or "Lette" to be more specific is a GIRL fan of the group. And when I say fan I mean these people save money to go to every show to buy every album and support the band by wearing merch t-shirts, pendants hats, and taking unpaid time off from jobs they sometimes don’t even have to get to events to see their juggalo FAMILY.

It’s intense.

I haven’t always known about Juggalos but they have always known about me. Let me clarify. I’ve been making clown porn and doing clown themed burlesque shows for well over a decade now so this entire crew of people who are "down with the clown" happen to also like naked chicks and REALLY like naked chicks who embrace the clown persona. I’ve gotten a lot of fan mail from juggalos over the years, some of them even assume that I myself am a fan of the band because of my clown makeup. But I never was.

I would write them back and say thanks so much for the support but no, I don’t go to ICP shows. I even TWICE had the chance to perform on stage with live while they played live and I passed it up. To be truthful…I always kind of secretly judged them. Maybe not even really secretly. They were easy to make fun of for some reason.

I guess, the same way people make fun of ME and don’t understand ME or the family that I have in the flesh hook suspension community. How we all travel to see each other, tattoo each others crews names on each other, raise kids together.

Just the same way people make fun of me and my stinky metal head friends. But we all know each other, go to the same shows, love the same bands with every fiber of our being that we drive all night and spend our last dollar to scream the lyrics and headbang along and feel like we’re among comrades for just that magical time. All the while society yelling at us to "get real jobs!" Yah, I know that feeling, but we were all just trying to exchange every with like minded folks.

I never really looked at juggalos that way. It was too easy to make a joke out of them.

Probably because I never really KNEW one.

Well, one of My favorite photographers, Chris Addams, began shooting this young fetish model who had just moved to town, Wendy Michelle. Wendy was a Juggallette. I mean, she even had the tattoos. She wore the colors and went to the shows and competed in the pageants and the whole nine yards.

She was goofy and they made these funny youtube videos together, the Wendy Child show:

Well, I sorta just fell in love. I knew I wanted to shoot her and shoot with her and make clothes for her and hang out with her. So we met and got along swimmingly well and started chilling. We liked the same things mostly, drinking 40s by the train tracks and taking weird pictures and smoking weed.

I never really suspected we had much in common in the way of musical taste but then slowly but surely she divulged her love for classic rock and we bonded over that.
On my birthday last year she came out and I invited her on stage for one set and she danced and did pole tricks like it was second nature to her. So, shortly after that she got a job at the club I was working at and we had crazy amounts of fun and made a lot of money hustling together. Twerking together. It was there I discovered her love for old school hip hop, not only that but she also knew a hell of a lot about it!
I liked this chick more and more the more we hung out.

She was thinking about moving away and in an effort to keep her around I asked her to move in with me. So she did. And for 6 months we had adventures and trials and tribulations and parties worthy of a 90s sitcom almost every day.

We made a lot of weird art, traveled, danced, made money, were really cold and depressed in winter.

So cold and depressed that one night we were passing a bottle back and forth to keep warm and showing each other videos on youtube of our favorite songs and such. I was showing her some hip hop stuff and she was saying oh yah, such and such a person has connections to ICP here’s a song they did together…. HMMM……..DO I LIKE ICP? I was having self doubt.

Along with ICP comes a host of offshoot record companies and among them are some female rappers. I got sort of obsessed with it. Because there’s some nasty nasty shit going on there and I sort of loved how this whole counter culture was embracing women artists. It’s not like that in most of sub genres of music.

I filmed a video of Wendy Michelle dancing at this awesome hole in the wall club. I asked her if she had any juggalo friends who would let her use their music and she got all excited and told Me about Razakel. I didn’t want to sink too much deeper into the juggalo hole so I told her to ask permission and pick a song and get it to me. But Wendy dropped the ball there so I ended up ordering two Razakel CDs and listening to them to try and pick a song.

Trouble was… I liked a lot of the songs and it was hard to pick.

FUCK ME. I Like Razakel. There. I said it. I played it really loud while My boyfriend was at work. If I liked Razakel chances were that I liked some other ICP stuff too so I just stopped and put the CDs away and picked my two favorite songs.

We ended up making this cool video, and even an extended version with nudity and TWO of the songs.

So, a lot of Juggalos are confused by me I think. I mean, I’m besties with their princess Miss Wendy Michelle, and I made all the outfits she wore at the gathering of the Juggalos this year, and I’m already planning what weird party we’re gonna throw together next at the stripclub.

Screen Shot 2015-08-10 at 12.21.38 PM

Every year someone tries to take me to the gathering and I have to be honest, I am more and more curious. I mean, my suspension friends even do performances there now! My people are already there. My people ARE their people… am I a Juggalo?

No, I’m sorry, I’m sorry I’m not. I’m sorry if that makes you upset. I get it now, though. I don’t judge juggalos. I have mad respect for anyone who can be that passionate about anything at all.

And I love a juggalo.

Loudly and proudly I love that bitch Wendy Michelle

I love one so how can I hate on them? Maybe everyone just needs to learn to love a juggalo and then they won’t the the "most hated band in the world." TC mark

Why Honest Conversations About Race Are Almost Impossible

Posted: 10 Aug 2015 06:54 PM PDT

Flickr / PROThe All-Nite Images
Flickr / The All-Nite Images

Is there a subject that is sure to make the average American more uncomfortable than race? In my experience as an outsider (foreigner) looking in, the answer is undoubtedly “no.” But it's no secret too that I take a particular interest in talking about race.

That interest is personal – I'm a Black Nigerian woman living in the United States – America's constructions of race directly affect me. That interest is academic and professional  – my scholarship mostly entails multiculturalism, of which my focus often centers on race. And I write publicly about race so as to educate and advocate.

As I write this, #Ferguson trends. A year after the death of Mike Brown, the city has not healed. In fact, St. Louis county is in an official state of emergency. It shouldn't come as a surprise to us because change is a difficult thing.

And the kind of change that Ferguson needs is not one that occurs within a year. It does not occur when a police officer leaves a place of contention, of which many believe he took a teenager's life without just cause. And even the legal proceedings that would have proved his innocence or his guilt, were ignored.

The kind of change Ferguson needs is the kind that is needed in Baltimore, in Oakland, in Chicago, and from Staten Island, New York City to Sanford, Florida. The kind of change that is needed is the kind that an entire nation must undergo, on behalf of their descendants, and for their children's children. It is the kind of change that is painful and terrifying and the stuff of true courage. It seems the nation forgets too often, but to borrow from Harper Lee, courage is more than a man [person] with a gun.

The courage to be a part of this change exists at the institutional level – where everything from education to housing to employment to health care becomes tarnished with America's deep-seated racism. Changing this is the work of many generations. But there exists too a courage that is individual. It is a courage that begins with the discomfort of having to confront and question all you've been told.

For many – for the majority of those who exist in power and privilege as far as identity goes – it begins with the willingness to question the reality you live in; to admit that reality does not belong to everyone. Standpoint is important. Because how can we even begin honest conversations about race when we cannot agree that you and I live in the same world, but because of history and all that it brings, that world is unequal and just? We do not experience the world the same way as each other.

And many cannot admit this. Many refuse to see that one's perception of the world is not the only one that exists. And indeed that goes for everyone, but especially those who exist in social positions of power. But if you want to find how well a society is doing in any one subject, you ask the least privileged and least powerful – and it is there that you will find your most important answers.

The truth is not always easy or simple. But the truth is an empty stomach, a long, hard day that becomes long hard months trying to make ends meet; the truth is a dead body in the ground. The truth is racism prevails in the United States in 2015 in a way that is sometimes subtle and sometimes obvious. But it is always terrifying.

I find there is little courage when people are asked to admit these truths. Perhaps that is what is so frustrating about our conversations on race. We seem to disagree fundamentally on the fundamentals – depending on who you are. Sometimes it is a matter of mere education and other times, it is willful ignorance.

You can't force people to believe what you do. But you can provide sound arguments, you can observe and explain social experiences of different groups – you can show patterns. But ultimately people must be left to their own devices to make up their own minds. The problem of course is that before we approach these conversations, many minds are already made up. The science, the stories, the realities cease to matter. It is unfortunate.

I do not think however, that because these conversations are almost impossible that they should not be tried for. On the contrary, I believe that trying to do the impossible is necessary. As a young girl living in Botswana at the time, we would make quips such as telling people something that was unlikely, was about as likely as the United States having a Black president. The impossible happened.

Apart from education, apart from the willingness to make one's self uncomfortable, empathy and humility must be at the forefront of conversations on all social experiences, and because of this country's history, especially race. Of course empathy and humility are hard to legislate, and you certainly can't teach them. Those things, I think, you garner from life and experience and encounters with people who are very different from you – and yet you fall in love with those people.

Let us talk about race. Let us do it with courage. And for those who will get left behind, let them get left behind. History has shown that some people must always be left behind. I read too somewhere recently that any movement needs long-term revolutionaries, not short-term radicals. Let's each take that to heart.

When we talk about race, we talk about so many different things with so many complexities. It can be overwhelming. But if we start talking honestly, with the desire to see multiple realities, and the willingness to change, the conversation and the work that belongs to several generations in bringing about equality and justice, does not seem so insurmountable. The impossible can happen. TC mark

This Is What Women Want When We Say We Want Rough Sex

Posted: 10 Aug 2015 08:44 AM PDT

Shutterstock,  Kuznechik
Shutterstock, Kuznechik

"I am going to fuck you. I am going to fuck you very hard, and it is going to hurt," he says to me. We are lying in my bed staring at each other. Both of us are on edge, annoyed with the other, and it seems that the only reasonable way to work it out now is to fuck.

I yank him on top of me and we kiss, hard and messy and passionately. He sucks my tongue into his mouth. I bite his lip a little longer and harder than I usually do. I dig my nails into his back, which I know he likes. They're sharp, pointed at the tips. "I'm going to fuck you now," he whispers.

I grab his hand and place it on my clit. He begins to move his fingers in slow circles the way he knows I like, then speeds it up. "Do you feel that?" I ask. "Do you feel how bad I want you?" He groans. "I want you to hurt me," I say. "I want you to hurt me."

“I slide down on his dick and both of us gasp. He grabs my boobs, big handfuls, squeezes them tight.”

Then his hands are in my hair and he's pulling, pulling and yanking so tightly that if I were a girl with thinner, less-resilient hair, I'd be afraid. But I'm not, and I fucking love it. I arch my back underneath him and our mouths meet. He gets hold of my bottom lip and he bites it – hard. Really hard. I drag my nails even deeper up and down his back, trying to leave big red marks for him to wince over in the morning. "Make it hurt," I say again. He loses control, then, and consumes my whole mouth with his. I can feel how hard he is, and even though we've already fucked twice today, I need it again.

By now I'm really wet, wanting him to shove inside me and make it hurt. I want it furiously. "Stand up," he says. "Get up." He yanks off my underwear and shoves me facedown on the bed, thrusts inside me, every inch of his big, hard dick slipping in and out. He takes another yank of my hair and I yelp. He's thrusting fast, hard, his breath coming in big ragged gasps. I tilt my ass up and bring my legs together so my pussy feels tighter – I know he likes that. "Grab my balls," he instructs, and I do, reaching under and cupping them firmly in my palm. "Uh huh, baby, just like that."

I bite at the comforter to keep from making too much noise; I'm sure my neighbors can hear the headboard whacking at the wall as we fuck. Then he pushes me up on the bed and onto my stomach, fucking me like that until he flips me over. I wrap my legs around him and dig my nails into his back, pushing him further and deeper into me. He dips his head down and bites my neck, nipping at the tender skin.

"Get on top of me," he commands, pulling out and laying down on his back. I slide down on his dick and both of us gasp. He grabs my boobs, big handfuls, squeezes them tight. In turn I run my nails up and down his thighs, making deep scratches so tomorrow he'll feel them and think about me. "Fuck me," he says. "Ride that big dick, baby." I pull his hair as I move on top of him, bite his lobe as I breathe and moan hotly in his ear the way I know he likes. He guides my hips up and down on his cock, slamming me up and down over and over and over until he can't take it anymore. "Grab my ass," I tell him, and he does, hard. I hope there will be marks there in the morning. "Harder, baby."

"I'm gonna come," he whispers. "Oh god, I'm gonna come." I've got his balls in my hand again as I ride him.

"Look at me," I say. "Look at me when you come. I want to watch you." We lock eyes and as he comes I shove my mouth onto his, muffling his groans of pleasure. I feel his orgasm ripple through me from my lips to my toes. We stay like that for a minute, his hands still holding my ass, until our breathing goes back to normal. In the morning, he'll complain of phantom scratches on his arms and I'll ache pleasantly all day, admiring the ring of bite marks hidden under my shirt. We'll both feel a lot calmer. TC mark

I Met A Man On SeekingArrangement And I Feel Dirty For Doing It

Posted: 07 Aug 2015 07:59 AM PDT

Shutterstock / sakkmesterke
Shutterstock / sakkmesterke

I decided to experiment with SeekingArrangement.com. When I first joined, I wasn't desperate by any means. I worked full-time in tech, and am an honor student at the university I am going to. I was really just curious…and extra income never hurts.

I used my university email, used a fake profile picture of a girl who looked kind of like me, since I want to be able to find a normal job in the future, and created a premium account.

I got hundreds of messages in my months of using the site. Most were from older Caucasian guys, every now and then it would be from a guy my age, but regardless the age they usually always want something a normal girlfriend or wife wouldn't be willing to do — like threesomes, anal, double penetration, and a big majority insist on unprotected sex. I had no interest in degrading myself or risking my health for the sake of money.

After about six months on being on the site, I finally got a message from a guy from across the country, who seemed normal, and had a very similar background to mine. He claimed he just wanted a younger girlfriend to be in a relationship with — promising that he was a total gentleman.

After talking on the phone, he promised me a $3000 a month allowance, to meet every other week, saying his last relationship was with a girl who went to NYU and lasted two years, he paid off all her student loans and even took her on a Mediterranean cruise.

I was curious, since I have yet to meet anyone off the site. And because I missed sex. Like him, I had no interest in doing anything sexual that wasn't vanilla. I analyzed the whole situation again and again, and even discussed it with one of my close guy-friends who told me, "If he doesn't chop you up the first time, he'll get tired of you very quickly."

But the offer was too tempting for me to turn down, especially since I was laid off at the time. So I agreed to meet him.

The next day he bought me a plane ticket to fly five hours across the country to meet him for the weekend. I made sure to pack mace and a Swiss knife in my checked-in luggage, for self-defense in case anything happened. He picked me up with his Aston Martin at the airport and took me straight to dinner. After dinner, he took me to a hotel room and told me he wanted the experience to feel like a boyfriend and girlfriend. He wanted me to tell him when I wanted to start the arrangement. I knew he was expecting sex, like 99% of the guys on Seeking Arrangement. An arrangement is a sexual exchange, I don't know how others twist it to sound like it isn't. He left me alone for the night, and every other night I was there, since he claimed he wanted “to give me space.”

He seemed like a nice guy, and I am not going to lie, $1500 for the weekend just for vanilla sex was hard to say no to. I missed sex. I had friends with benefits before. So this to me, was friends with extra benefits. So I told him the next morning when he came by that I was ready.

The sex was good. But I am not going to lie — all I could think about when I had sex with him was, "I am pretty sure my dad is better-looking, taller and hotter than him." After the sex, I felt filthy, and started to miss the girl who used to insist on working hard to make her own money. I missed the girl who used to believe that her future had unlimited potential, and that someday she'd do something great and purposeful with her life. But at the same time I told myself in my mind, "just look at him as a generous, helpful boyfriend."

I somehow managed to persuade myself to want to keep going, but there was never a moment when I was with him that I didn't feel disgusted and filthy. If sleeping with a guy old enough to be your dad isn't filthy, gross or weird, what is it?

While I was still there, my sugar daddy kept telling me how he wanted to see me again and wanted to arrange for me to fly out again. Once I got home, however, he texted me saying, "I didn't feel a connection with you, good luck with your search."

I was sad I dropped myself to such a level for the sake of sex and money, but at the same time, I realized how it wasn't worth it. I deleted my profile after his text, and decided to never try again. And made up my mind that maybe I should get a religion to cleanse my soul.

I spent weeks feeling filthy, used, and couldn't help wondering what I did wrong. All I can say is, Seeking Arrangement is for the most part, prostitution. No man is going to pay you to just sit there and eat dinner with him. If there ever is that guy, he probably is a one out of a million. Whoever says Seeking Arrangement isn't prostitution has a very different definition of what prostitution is compared to the norm, or they're just lying to themselves like I tried to do. TC mark

I Saw An Old Cottage During My Run And I Wish I Never Found It

Posted: 07 Aug 2015 08:48 AM PDT

Flickr / Loren Kerns
Flickr / Loren Kerns

I never ran past the stump. Never. The stump had been there for years, at the edge of where I turned around on my runs, right at that point where I knew I would have a hard time getting back without walking.

Except for that day. Last spring, around noon on a Saturday. Gentle breeze, high 70s. The sun dipping behind the clouds every few minutes. Perfect weather.

Something about the daylight had always made me feel insecure. It was the night we were always supposed to be wary of, with its shadows and the silence. When the bugs would stop making noises — that's when you were supposed to worry. That's when the hairs were supposed to rise. When everything felt wrong. Not during the day, though. Not when everything was supposed to be safe.

That was never how I worked, though. I was always wary of the day growing up. My nightmares were during nap times, during the day when everyone else thought the world was safe.

beetlejuice

I grew up as a cautious type of kid. I was afraid of a lot of things. Being alone used to terrify me. I slept in my parents' bed until I was four or five, and even after that I felt uneasy sleeping alone. Most kids feel safe if they bundle up enough in their blankets, but that never worked for me. I always felt as if I were laying on an island surrounded by evil, and nothing I could do could protect me from it.

Back in high school, running was easier. I could eat what I wanted, and run whenever I felt like it. My run time was never really affected by my life choices. I was a quick kid, too. I was running low five-minute miles. One time I even ran a 4:50. Not really competition speeds for college, but pretty good for a kid who just enjoyed going to city runs on the weekends.

I used to imagine myself as a gazelle, running from a cheetah or some other large cat. The cats win sometimes, but the gazelle has form over power, grace over strength. When chased, the gazelle will take every step with the intent to survive. That need to live always spoke to me.

That was the past. As the years strode by, running six-minute miles began to hurt. I became more of a seven-minute mile type. Which was fine; I wasn't racing anymore.

For me, running had always been a form of meditation. About a mile or so into a run everything would loosen up and it'd become easier to stride out. Mentally, I'd reach a point where the intense focus I needed to maintain pace simply melted away and I became more of a spectator than a participant in the run. I would experience myself as just a part of the trail.

On that Saturday, everything felt right. Everything was more than fine. It was the perfect day. I was approaching the stump and I felt amazing. The best I had felt on a run in years.

Years.

I approached the stump and I hurdled over it like a track star. I heard a scratching sound, even though it felt like a clean jump and I didn't feel like I scraped anything. I was so in the zone that I didn't turn around. Birds and other animals in the woods were common on my runs. I ended up running another mile into the forest. I had never been that deep in. I was probably around five miles from my house when I saw a bit of smoke in the distance. I knew that there were other trails in the woods, but the trail I used was the nice one. The trail that the sun could touch almost all day.

I looked down. My trail had quickly devolved. It wasn't as nice as it was before the stump.

I saw the smoke get closer. Then I saw a shape.

It was a cottage. The smoke was coming from a random cottage deep in the woods, a building so run-down the squirrels likely avoided it. Something about the way the house sat on its foundation made it seem to be twisted and, in a way, abnormal. The windows were uncharacteristically high, beginning almost at chest level. I started to jog in place, considering whether or not to keep moving forward or to turn back. The curtains in the window had some sort of floral pattern. I didn't want to trespass. I never knew who the woods really belonged to out here.

Suddenly, the curtain was thrown back and a figure was looking at me from behind the window. Eyes wide, barely peering over the base of the windowsill.

I turned and I ran toward home.

It seemed so far. It took me a very long time to make it back to the woods I was familiar with. I just kept running. Pumping my arms and moving my legs. Breathing. Strong inhale. Strong exhale. Strong inhale. Strong exhale. Focus. Equal breathing. Equal breathing.

That's when I saw the stump. Except it didn't look the same, different from how I was used to seeing it. Granted, I had never approached the stump from that side before. But I knew. I knew that there was something wrong. My chest tensed up just a little bit more. I slowed down to give some rest to my hips.

There was some sort of lump on the tree stump that I had never seen. Some type of cancer.

The closer I got, the less the lump looked like a part of the tree. It looked like some kind of matted hair, clumped and moist. I had slowed down to almost a walk. I was just a few strides away from the stump when the moist lump opened its eyes.

It was some type of animal, covered in a dark brown fur that almost camouflaged it against the stump's bark. It was only after the eyes opened that I realized both of the animal's long arms were draped over my side of the stump, the head concealed behind the opposite side. All I could see were the eyes peeking over, like the animal was hiding from me.

"Hiiiiiiiii, Alllllexander. Alexander the stranger. The runner, the Lone Ranger. Don't look surprisssssed. You don't remember me? We used to be so close. You slept on top of the bed, and I slept belllllllow," it said.

Its way of speaking seemed to trail off on certain words in a weird distracted tone. I looked at the arms of the animal, covered in hair, powerful looking. I couldn't bring myself to speak, at first. I hesitated.

"Are you the devil?" I asked.

"Aw, Alexxxx, the devil is just a story. I'm very real. I'm you. I'm not you. I'm something different. Something blue. Something betterrrrrrrrr," it said. The animal started to tap the stump's bark with all of its fingers.

"I need to go. I want to go home," I said. I was looking at the hands of the animal, at the claws. It was tapping its fingers against the bark. I noticed my breathing wasn't rapid. I wasn't out of breath at all from the run. Instead, I was barely breathing at all. Like I kept forgetting to take another breath every few seconds. I turned my head to look back at the cottage quickly to see if anything was coming from that direction. Nothing was there. I quickly turned my head back to keep my eyes on the creature behind the stump.

"Ohhh, nowwww, Alex. Don't you worry about Mother. You'll never get to meet her, Alllllllexxxx. That's what I'm here for. You shouldn't have looked. Didn't you learn to never peek under the bed, Allleexxx? Triple X. Not the sex. Not the sex. You aren't going where you want to. This isn't the trail home. The trail of tears. The trail of fears. We're going to do something else," it said.

Up until that point the eyes had been wandering, contemplating what the next words would be. The animal seemed to enjoy the rhymes. Every rhyme would strike some sort of emotional chord with my childhood. The shows I watched, the things I would say growing up.

Then the animal's eyes locked right into mine.

"The things I'm going to do to you, Alex. Oh, you haven't lived until you've, ahhhhhhh, the things I will do to your innards. The belly. Inside. I don't want to ruin the surprise, but, ohhhh. The things we are going. To. Do."

I heard it clack its teeth together a few times.

I swallowed and reminded myself to breathe. I made myself say something.

"Please. Don't," was all that came out.

I couldn't see its mouth, but I could imagine its smile. It was in the eyes. Everything about the animal was inhuman, except for the eyes. Baby blues. They could have been my eyes. The eyes squinted a little in an expression dripping with intent.

"Are you going to pee yourself? Are you going to pisssssss? Little Alex pissed the bed. Pissed the bed and slept in the shed. You can't hide from me, Alex. You can't run away. This is our moment, together. Are you going to pee pee? Cry to Mother. I used to lick it up, every time I would lick it all up. I would suck that bed dry after a good soiling. What it must taste like after all these years. I've waited, Alex. I've waited to taste it from the source. Pure. Unfiltered. I've followed you for a very long time. Go ahead and do it for me, Alex. I just want to smell it," the animal said.

I heard it lick its lips and start clicking its teeth. I could hear them like pieces of metal clacking together. And then the animal slowly raised its head above the stump. There was no smile. Just a wide mouth of teeth. Row upon row into the blackness of its throat. As if the teeth would never end once something strayed past the animal's hairy lips.

"No," was all I could say.

"No? Oh, Alex. We know no won't go. No. I'm going to step over this stump and you are going to let me do it. All the dreams are about to happen. Let me suck on it. Your hand, your foot, your leg, your flesh. Just a nibble. Just the tipssssss."

The animal began to laugh. Seeing the teeth, hearing the laughter, the depth of the animal's scratchy voice. Like coals on a fire.

My bladder let out everything.

The moment that happened, the animal stopped laughing and threw its head back in the air to take in the smell. I could see its nostrils expand to surprising size. Maybe fear drove me, because once I realized the animal was going to keep its head back a moment, I shot into the edge of the woods to the right. Fight or flight.

That day was my best run in so long that I had to chance it. I had to try to escape. To run for my life. Miles. I still had miles until I would make it back home. And I wasn't on any trail; I was just running through the middle of the woods, hitting the dead pine needles with my feet. Needles that were never cleared by anyone. You could have buried anything in those woods. If someone disappeared out there, that would have been it.

The animal realized a few seconds after I broke the tree line that I wasn't going to wait. I didn't hear it talk, but I did hear it start moving behind me. The movement was what kept me sprinting, kept me pushing myself. I heard the legs of the creature and the trees. The animal was so strong that every few breaths I was taking I would hear a tree get splintered, or another tree fall down. And it was gaining on me.

Another tree fell. I could hear the animal breathing.

"Allllllexxxxxx," it said. "Alex!"

I couldn't turn around. I didn't want to. If it weren't for the lack of a trail, I would have closed my eyes, hidden deep inside myself and hoped to wake up alive. The breathing was so close, almost right next to my ears. I didn't want to see. I didn't want to see the moment happen. I wanted to try to fight until the very end.

And that's when I found another trail.

Out of nowhere. It was going in the same direction as the main trail I had always ran down. I didn't think of anything besides getting home and escaping. I opened up my stride and I did my best to breathe correctly. Pump my arms, perfect form, perfect form. Not slamming my feet, not arching my back too much, staying forward, letting my core be involved. It was the most important run of my life.

I was the gazelle. Puff out.

I had to be. Gasp in.

I needed to be perfect. Puff out.

I needed to live. Gasp in.

I knew I had a chance if I could sustain the pace, maintain, and not look back. Even on the trail, I could still hear the animal crashing through the woods behind me, as if the trail wasn't wide enough. I didn't want to think about how massive it was, how easily the animal was going to tear me apart, how my skin was going to feel sliding off my bones.

I tried to keep my mind on the run. On the breathing. On staying light. Falling on each step to save energy. Long strides. I could make it if I kept form. Kept the breathing, ignored the pain in my shins, in my thighs. I had been past muscle failure when I ran past the stump; I wasn't sure how I was running as well as I was then, but I knew I wanted to live. Knew that if I kept that in my mind, I could do it.

I was so close. I saw the edge of the woods, and there was maybe a quarter of a mile before I was out. I was there. I was going to make it. The animal kept running after me. It must have had many legs, given how it was smashing through the bushes and tearing apart the trees.

Ten feet away from the wood line, I took a step, but my foot didn't land right. The animal had caught me by grabbing a hold of my ankle. I was pulled to the ground and my head hit something while I was being flipped upside down. The animal raised me up to its face.

"Alex, I love games. I told you that you couldn't run. Was that tortuuuurrrreee for you? I let you get this far."

The animal's tongue came out of its mouth. Long and grotesque, the tongue slipped down my shorts to taste the urine. It was a violating sensation. Sandpaper. If I hadn't already done so, I would have urinated myself, again.

"Salty," the animal chuckled.

I was shaking. There's a certain type of anticipation that the body experiences when the mind knows everything is about to end. I could feel it in the back of my neck. A kind of tingle. Instead of forgetting to breathe, I couldn't get enough air. My lungs were a vacuum.

I was upside down, but raised high enough to be eye level with the animal. The creature was something old and eternal: the hair matted in odd places, patches of scales, sharp joints of a being that should have died when the planet was young. My heart ached. To be so close to home and to be gazing upon true evil. The monster. The devil. To see the matted hair and the black line over the blue eyes.

"Oh, Alex, sweety. No tears? Now now, do stop screaming. No one can hear you in this terrible dream," the animal said. The smell was too complicated for human noses to understand; it was disgusting and as hot as a furnace.

My skin felt tighter after each breath from the creature.

And the animal was right, I was screaming. I didn't even realize it, my mind was in so many places. I couldn't think of anything to do. I was trapped. Caught.

"Please," was the only word I managed to get out.

"Don't mind if I do, boy." What happened next was fast. I was instantly flipped right-side up and I watched as the animal opened its mouth wide. All those teeth seemed to be infinite. An impossibly deep throat. A part of my mind thought I was looking into Hell itself.

There was no fire, just the heat of it. There were only teeth.

The animal's tongue slid out of the mouth and wrapped around my leg and drifted up. I tried to struggle away, but there was nowhere to go in that amount of time. I saw my leg slowly being pulled into the mouth. The end. I closed my eyes.

My skin slid off of the bone like the icicle on a popsicle stick. I felt the tug, the pressure, and then heard a pop and a feeling of release. At first, I couldn't tell if the fire that shot up my leg was the heat from the animal's mouth or the pain. It was searing. I couldn't help but look. See what had happened. I was bleeding everywhere. So much blood drenched the animal's face. I realized why the animal's fur was all matted. Clotted. It had its eyes closed, enjoying the blood spraying all over its face. Half of my leg was gone, disappeared in the animal's mouth. The pain was everywhere, and I was surprised that I had not immediately gone into shock. I knew that I needed to keep my head together. I needed to concentrate. Then I heard the crunching. The animal started to chew.

It was eating my leg.

It dropped me to the ground. It seemed to be caught up in the sensation. Like it hadn't eaten in years. I didn't care. I needed to escape, I needed to get home. Home. I was almost in my backyard. I was ten feet away. There was so much blood, I knew I had only a few minutes. Maybe less. I needed to get to my back yard, I needed to crawl. I rolled over to my stomach and I moved every remaining limb as fast as I could.

"No. Ugh, uk! Stuck! Stop!" the animal choked out in surprise.

The animal's mouth was full. I had the notion that it didn't want to stop chewing. It paused, as if to decide whether it should just enjoy what it had, or to catch me. Maybe it paused intentionally. By the time the animal made the decision to lunge at me, I had rolled the rest of the way into my backyard. I had done it. I made it back. I rolled to my back. I knew I needed to stop the bleeding. Seconds mattered. I ripped off all of my clothes and tore them to tie a tourniquet. I pulled the knots tight and covered the stump that remained of my leg.

My heart was still beating.

I needed to hydrate.

I needed to.

I needed to get to a doctor.

I needed.

I needed.

I passed out.

beetlejuice

I woke up. I couldn't tell how long I'd been out. I looked over. Maybe it had all just been a dream. A nightmare, and I had become dehydrated on my run. It was a relieving feeling, but after a moment the clouds in my head started to clear. It wasn't a dream. At the edge of the woods, it was there. Peeking behind a tree, and somehow hiding the true size of itself. The animal.

It was dangling a shredded running shoe in one of its hands. My running shoe. I heard a slow crunching sound. A steady chewing. The animal was still chewing on my bones. It began to speak again, except its voice had changed to the voice of my mother, "Alex. Alllleeeexxx, wake up, sweetheart. Its time to go outside and play. Go off and play in the woods. Don't you want to come back, honey? Do come back. Maybe tomorrow, yes? Get your five miles in. Get your 10 miles in? I'll see you then, dear. I will see you then."

I never could figure out what made the animal stop, how it wasn't able to move past the wood line, or even how I knew I would be safe if I made it back to my yard. Was it really under my bed as a child? The cottage. Mother. I didn't understand.

I crawled back to my house. The bleeding had slowed, but the bandages were soaked through with my blood. I was really lightheaded. I thought I was going to pass out again when I had to push the sliding glass door open.

I managed to make a phone call before passing out again.

The doctors didn't know what to think. I told them it was a gator that got me. No one would have believed anything else. No one questioned me further with that information, either. People rarely show up at an ER with a leg bitten off. No doctor where I live would have the experience to really question my story, anyway.

I have never gone back in the woods. Never even thought about it. I never could go back. Sometimes, if I wake up before the sun rises, I'll be drinking my coffee and right when the sun hits the tree line, I'll see it. The animal, peeking out from behind a trunk. Never the same tree. What is left of my leg will ache, and I'll feel the sensation of being lowered into the animal's mouth, again. The tip of my leg will feel that fire. The tip of my stump.

Once the twilight of morning is past, the animal will duck from whatever it's hiding behind and disappear. It never speaks. It never does anything but look at me. I never see the animal's teeth, but I don't ever have to. TC mark

What Each Myers-Briggs Personality Type Is Like As A Friend

Posted: 10 Aug 2015 09:01 AM PDT

eddierioscreative
eddierioscreative

ENFP: The excitable yet surprisingly insightful friend who subtly gives you a pep talk every time you hang out and leaves you feeling like you could be the next President.

ESFJ: The friend who lets you live at their house for two weeks after you break up with your significant other so they can make sure you're eating, sleeping and going to work like a functioning human being.

ENTJ: The successful and slightly bossy friend who is constantly challenging you to reach your full potential – because they see it in you, even when you don't see it in yourself.

ISTJ: The super-organized friend who always shows up fifteen minutes early for your hangouts and whom you'd pretty much trust with your life.

ENFJ: The wise mother hen who's there come hell or high water but isn't afraid to give you tough love if ever and whenever you need it.

ISFJ: The undyingly loyal friend who reminds you of your grandmother but in a good way. As in, they regularly bake you cookies and are always down for a relaxing night in.

INFP: The deep, introspective friend who will listen to you talk for fifteen straight hours without interruption. Of course, when they do offer advice it's incredibly on point and you have the eerie feeling that they've somehow channeled your deepest feelings and thoughts.

ENTP: The chaotic friend who regularly pops into your life, asks you to join them on a crazy new project or adventure and then completely disappears for 6-12 months at a time.

INTP: The friend who NEVER initiates hanging out but is paradoxically almost always down to chill – as long as you're down to talk science or conspiracy theories with them.

INFJ: The friend you have to plan a week ahead to see (in order to give them time to mentally prepare for the hangout) but then always end up spending ten plus hours discussing the nature of life, the Universe and everything with.

ISFP: The cool, probably hipster friend who goes to a lot of music festivals and likes everything exactly 6 months before it becomes popular.

INTJ: Your friend who's in MENSA and sometimes rubs it in your face… but also has a downright fascinating mind so you're okay with it.

ESFP: The friend who is down for pretty much anything, pretty much anytime and is more fun than basically everyone else you know combined.

ISTP: The chill friend who goes along with anything and always somehow knows exactly what's wrong with your computer and/or car.

ESTP: The athletic, adventurous friend who always seems to be off doing something dangerous or crazy whenever you want to hang out with them.

ESTJ: That friend who gives you incessant lectures about how you need to get your life together (and exactly how to do so) but you know it's because they care… or at least you're pretty sure they do. TC mark

32 Facts About Cats I’ll Bet You Didn’t Know

Posted: 10 Aug 2015 12:49 PM PDT

Flickr ChrisPerriman
Flickr ChrisPerriman

1. Smallest cat.

A tiny little squeaky adult blue Himalayan named Tinker Toy weighed 18 ounces and was less than three inches tall.

2. Oldest cat.

A matronly old Texas cat named Crème Puff died in 2005 only three days after her 38th birthday.

3. Most prolific mama kitty.

Dusty, a Texas tabby, set the world record in 1952 by having her 420th kitten at age 18. Ouch!

4. Most kitties in one litter.

The largest known litter where every cat survived belonged to a South African Persian cat named Bluebell—all 14 kitties in her litter pulled through. The largest total number of surviving kitties in one litter came from another mama cat—15 out of 19 among her brood made it past infancy.

5. Longest cat.

A cat named Stewie was just over four feet long when you measured from the tip of his tail to his nose. That’s one looonnnng cat!

6. The fattest fat cat of ’em all.

An Australian tabby named Himmy tipped the scales at nearly 47 pounds.

7. It takes a nation of a half a billion to hold us back.

There are currently an estimated 500 million domestic cats in the world right now purring, hissing, stretching, and sleeping.

8. Cats only meow at humans.

They do not meow at other cats. They only employ the “meow” sound to psychologically manipulate humans into giving them what they want.

9. A group of adult cats is known as a “clowder.”

Whereas a group of kittens is known as a “kindle.”

10. Cats have psychedelic pee.

Cat urine will glow under a blacklight.

11. Cats can survive 200-foot falls.

A cat named Andy fell 16 stories from an apartment building and survived.

12. Don’t give them milk!

Despite the legend that cats will come from miles around if you place a saucerful of milk outside your door, cats are actually lactose intolerant, and milk will give them gas and diarrhea.

13. Cats were considered godly in ancient Egypt.

Ancient Egyptians worshiped a goddess named Bast. She had a woman’s body and a cat’s head. Egyptians would also mummify their dead cats. Entire families would shave their eyebrows to mourn their recently departed death. And killing a cat in ancient Egypt would earn you the death penalty.

14. Cats were considered demonic in Europe during the Middle Ages.

They were burned alive in town squares during the Festival of Saint John. In the 1200s, Pope Gregory IX declared black cats to be the Devil incarnate, which led to wide-scale slaughtering of cats and—because there were fewer kitties around to keep the rat population in check—may have been a direct cause of the Black Plague.

15. Cats sleep two-thirds of their lives away.

Your average lazy-ass housecat spends around 15-18 hours of every day asleep. This means your average lazy-ass nine-year-old house cat has only spent three years awake.

16. In the little time they’re actually awake, about a third of that is spent cleaning themselves.

Nearly one third of a cat’s waking hours are spent cleaning his or herself. So an average nine-year-old cat spends only two years awake and not cleaning themselves.

17. Boy cats tend to be left-handed, while girl cats are righties.

Some cats are ambidextrous, but most males are left-handed while most females are right-handed.

18. Calicos and tortoiseshells are almost always female; if they’re male, they’re sterile.

It is not only society that discriminates by gender—nature often does, too. For the rare hapless male calico or tortoiseshell, this discrimination prevents them from passing on their genes and watching their grandchildren grow up on Facebook.

19. All kittens are born with blue eyes.

Every kitten is born with blue eyes; they only change color about two weeks after their eyes first open.

20. Most blue-eyed cats with white fur are deaf.

Among cats born with both blue eyes and white fur, a staggering percentage—around 65% to 85%—are also deaf.

21. Only giraffes and camels walk like cats do.

When a cat is walking, its front and back left legs move in tandem, as do its front and back right legs. The only other animals that walk this way are giraffes and camels.

22. Americans spend more every year on cat food than on baby food.

And if that makes you cry, you’re acting like a baby.

23. Abe Lincoln was a cat person.

Abraham Lincoln shared the White House with four of his pet cats.

24. So was Muhammad.

Islam’s prophet was a cat lover; his favorite was a tabby named Muezza. Islamic legend says that tabbies have an “M” on their heads because Muhammad was fond of resting his hand on Muezza’s head.

25. Tabitha?

According to one survey, the most popular names for female cats in America are Tigger, Pumpkin, Missy, Misty, Muffin, Patches, Fluffy…and Tabitha.

26. Purripheral vision.

Cats have an amazing scope of peripheral vision—an estimated 285 degrees’ worth of panoramic view are available to them at any given time. However, they are completely unable to see what’s right under their nose.

27. Cats are brainier than dogs.

Cats’ brains contain nearly twice as many neurons than dog brains. Cats’ brains are also more biologically closer to human brains than to dog brains. Take that, you doggie dummies!

28. Disneyland unleashes a squad of feral cats every night.

Since 1955, California’s Disneyland has set loose about 200 feral cats every night to keep the premises free of rats and mice.

29. There is an official name for cat-lovers.

Well, besides “cat-lovers,” that is. If you love cats, you’re an ailurophile.

30. Indoor cats live about three to five times longer than outdoor cats.

On average, outdoor cats live about three to five years, while indoor cats yawn, stretch, lick themselves, and last 15 years.

31. Four million cats are eaten yearly.

An estimated four million cats are eaten every year in Asia.

32. There are just as many “crazy cat men” as there are crazy cat ladies.

A 2007 poll revealed that men are equally as likely to own cats as are women. TC mark


Sources:
1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15.

You’re Only A Movie Star If You’re Young, White, And Male

Posted: 07 Aug 2015 08:05 AM PDT

Entourage
Entourage

The film industry has reached a horrendous standard when it comes to its ignorant lack of diversity in casting.

And nobody cares.

When examining top-grossing films for 2014, only 28.1% of all speaking or named characters in these movies were female. That's 2.3 Andrew Garfields in the 375th remake of Spiderman to 1 Carmen Ejogo in Selma.

The only time a man is considered a minority in the film industry is when it comes to their lack of sexualization. It's in this category that women excel. Hooray!

Because the primary function for female characters is to be displayed as ~*~eye candy~*~.

Sexy attire, nudity, or being referred to as "dude, so totally hot lol" are three major categories of objectification that the 28.1% of female characters who actually get to speak, also get to enjoy during their onscreen time. And frighteningly, the 13-20 year old demographic is more likely to be sexualized than actresses over 40.

Which adds some distorted sense to the fact that, out of the already minuscule percentage of female leads, none of them were older than 45.

I mean, Meryl fucking Streep was cast in a SUPPORTING ROLE for Into the Woods.

Female characters are constantly being depicted as younger and more sexualized than male co-stars, and this fixation on youthfulness and physical attraction severely limits the career opportunities for actresses.

It also, frankly, minimizes the scope of storytelling capabilities. If the industry believes that women can't be seen with a shirt on for 90 minutes, there can't be much variety in what we're watching.

And that would really suck if we were buying movie tickets to see the same plot play out over and over again…

Avengers>
Avengers>
Fast and Furious 7
Fast and Furious 7
Amazing Spider Man
Amazing Spider Man

The tumblr, Every Single Word Spoken, visually emphasizes the atrocity that is stereotyped nonwhite character tokenisms.

In 2014, a grand total of 17 movies did not feature one black speaking or named character. At all.

And this isn't anything new.

White characters make up an entire 73% of the top-grossing films of 2014, and the sufficient lack of on screen prevalence for Hispanic, black, or Asian characters hasn't noticeably changed for at least 7 years.

It also doesn't make any sense, because despite Latinos making up 25% of frequent moviegoers, they make up less than 5% of characters in movies.

The battle goes behind the scenes too, with women making up 1.9% of the directors behind the top films of 2014, and 5.8% of black directors and 2.4% of Asian directors behind the top 700 films since 2007.

Movies will continue to skew the demographic reality of their audience if they continue to recycle stereotypes. Film characters are overwhelmingly white and male, which fails to reflect the actual population of moviegoers.

It’s absurd that this continues to be an issue today.

Outrage has recently been sparked over the newly released trailer for the movie Stonewall, which chronicles the 1969 Stonewall Riots in New York City. Ironically, the message depicted in the trailer is “ordinary people can do extraordinary things,” as a white male actor is shown throwing the first brick in the riots.

Historically, Marsha P. Johnson, a black transgender woman, is credited with throwing the first brick.

So, yeah, it makes total sense why a white male actor was cast to play her???

Only 19 out of the 4,610 speaking characters in 2014’s top 100 films were lesbian, gay, or bisexual (a grand total of 0 were transgender).

Portrayal in films needs to change. Despite there being public attention drawn to such imbalances, the prevalence of women on the screen has not significantly or noticeably increased in over 50 years. And while the films nor the filmmakers aren’t necessarily racist, the practice they contribute to certainly is. TC mark

10 Beauty Lessons You’ll Learn In College

Posted: 10 Aug 2015 09:02 AM PDT

schweimy
schweimy

You learn a lot in college. You learn a ton from your lectures and your professors, you learn how to coexist with a roommate who might not be your Favorite Person Ever, and you start to learn what your place in this world could be. You might learn that the career you always thought you wanted isn't for you. You also learn how to do adult things on your own and how to drink your weight in cheap beer.

I learned all of these things in my four years at the University of Minnesota, and I also learned some really important beauty lessons, things that I carry with me even five years after graduation. So whether you're finishing up your college career or just moving into the dorms, here's what you need to know.

1. A red lip fixes everything. It really does. If you're hungover, throw on a red lip. If you're exhausted, it brightens up your face. If you need an extra shot of confidence, a little red lipstick can give you a kickass boost. This is my ultimate truth.

2. Wash your face. Puhleeeeeeze wash your face every single night! I admit that I don't always do this still, and I pay for it later. Buy a mini pack of makeup wipes when you're at Target and keep them in your bag or near your bed for when you're gonna pass out. You'll thank me in the morning and again in a week or two when you don't get a brand new zit!

3. Be kind to your skin. If you have zits, don't stress out and cover them with a bunch of super-drying potions. Be gentle. Moisturize! Your skin needs moisture most of all, so drink a lot of water and moisturize! Don't make your skin freak out because it's dry as hell.

4. Embrace your hair texture. One of the biggest things I learned in college was to stop fighting my curls and waves in effort to have the straight hair that was oh-so-popular in the mid-2000s. I learned, instead, to enhance my natural texture and wear those waves with confidence. I don't know how many people started complimenting me on my hair once I gave in to the curl and let my hair do its thing.

5. Save money by beautifying like the smartie you are. Visit a beauty school for simple services like a trim or basic blonde highlights. I wouldn't advise you see a student for a drastic change, but checking out the beauty school for little things is a great way to save money. Plus, some of them even offer college students an extra discount!

6. Dudes don't care if you look like crap. They really don't. They're more interested in kissing you and fooling around than the one piece of hair you forgot while curling it. They think you look hot in the morning. They want to bone you 24/7.

7. Put in effort. Conversely, though, it is important to make a good impression during your college years. When you're meeting your advisor or a favorite professor for a one-on-one, it's a good idea to look pulled-together. Some majors require you to do an internship; the people you meet there might set you up for success later. Make a good impression by looking professional and polished. Keep your nails groomed; a naked nail is much better looking than a chipped one.

8. Your skin doesn't like it when you drink too much. We all drink in college, and often to excess. I did (and still do sometimes) – but my skin would sound the alarm once it had had enough. I'd get puffy. I'd get dark circles under my eyes. I'd get more zits. So have a lot of fun in college and party as much as you want, but remember that booze makes your skin feel hungover, too.

9. Get some sleep. All-nighters don't make you pretty. If you must stay up all night, drink a lot of water. It'll keep your skin moisturized and plumped-up, so you might look a little bit brighter in the morning. Try your best to get a decent amount of sleep during college, because it'll catch up to you in your late twenties!

10. Watch what you eat. I know it's tempting when you live in the dorms to take advantage of the ice cream machines, pizza and tacos that they serve around the clock, and you should most definitely indulge in those things a whole lot, because you'll miss them when they're gone. But also try to sneak lots of greens and whole grains onto your plate, too. Establishing healthy eating patterns during college helps set you up for success when you're out in the real world. And you know what? Eating a bunch of good-for-you veggies and fruits WILL make you glow. TC mark

33 Twisted Chuck Palahniuk Quotes That Will Make You Re-Evaluate Everything

Posted: 07 Aug 2015 12:08 PM PDT


Fight Club
Fight Club

The unreal is more powerful than the real, because nothing is as perfect as you can imagine it.


It’s only after we’ve lost everything that we’re free to do anything.


People don’t want their lives fixed. Nobody wants their problems solved. Their dramas. Their distractions. Their stories resolved. Their messed cleaned up. Because what would they have left? Just the big scary unknown.


You will always have some excuse not to live your life.


No matter how careful you are, there’s going to be the sense you missed something, the collapsed feeling under your skin that you didn’t experience it all. There’s that fallen heart feeling that you rushed right through the moments where you should’ve been paying attention.


At the time, my life just seemed too complete, and maybe we have to break everything to make something better out of ourselves.


When we don’t know who to hate, we hate ourselves.


You know how they say you only hurt the ones you love? Well, it works both ways.


Nothing of me is original. I am the combined effort of everyone I’ve ever known.


What I want is to be needed. What I need is to be indispensable to somebody. Who I need is somebody that will eat up all my free time, my ego, my attention. Somebody addicted to me. A mutual addiction.


All the effort in the world won’t matter if you’re not inspired.


You realize that our mistrust of the future makes it hard to give up the past.


If we can forgive what's been done to us… If we can forgive what we've done to others… If we can leave all of our stories behind. Our being villains or victims. Only then can we maybe rescue the world.


Our real discoveries come from chaos, from going to the place that looks wrong and stupid and foolish.


I don't want to die without a few scars.


That’s why I write, because life never works except in retrospect. You can’t control life, at least you can control your version.


We all die. The goal isn’t to live forever, the goal is to create something that will.


Your birth is a mistake you’ll spend your whole life trying to correct.


It’s funny how you never think about the women you’ve had. It’s always the ones who get away that you can’t forget.


Advertising has us chasing cars and clothes, working jobs we hate so we can buy shit we don’t need.


We can spend our lives letting the world tell us who we are … Or we can decide for ourselves.


Your past is just a story. and once you realize this it has no power over you.


Make me into anything, but just love me.


All God does is watch us and kill us when we get boring. We must never, ever be boring.


The best way is not to fight it, just go. Don’t be trying all the time to fix things. What you run from only stays with you longer. When you fight something, you only make it stronger.


Maybe self-improvement isn’t the answer, maybe self-destruction is the answer.


You gain power by pretending to be weak. By contrast, you make people feel so strong. You save people by letting them save you.


Nothing is as good as you can imagine it. No one is as beautiful as she is in your head. Nothing is as exciting as your fantasy.


Without access to true chaos, we’ll never have true peace. Unless everything can get worse, it won’t get any better.


People have to really suffer before they can risk doing what they love.


Nothing drives people crazier than seeing someone have a good fucking life.


The only way to find true happiness is to risk being completely cut open.


Find out what you're afraid of and go live there.


TC mark