c!clingyduo pt 2 (do you like me any less? nope!)
the queen of nothing, holly black // @/alizonzai // the beatrice letters, lemony snicket // ksenija pronina // olivia de recat // writing prompts for the broken-hearted, eden robinson // @/billypotts // johnny panic and the bible of dreams, sylvia plath // undertale // @/inkskinned
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#c!clingyduo #web weaving #dream smp #angiemarkets.txtAt the party there was this guy who looked like the dare sunglasses and everything which intrigued me #whiteboycongregation and so i talked to him a little and danced near him significantly more and at the end he asked for my number i am literally impossible to stop . Still in love with you know who but it’s nice to know im capable
Backreading the blog and what the fuck does #whiteboycongregation mean
Anyone have any tips/resources for learning Egyptian arabic🌞🌞
You are DEAD longer than you are ALIVE And you aree WASTING IT by GIVING IN TO FEAR FEAR FEAR IS THE ENEMY
aha! you may have mistaken my statement of "women belong in the kitchen" as misogynistic, but you see, i think being in the kitchen is a good thing. women's innate desire to make sandwiches is a positive trait, and we all know if it's positive it doesn't count as a stereotype. i'm very smart and i know what feminism is.
turning to markets nation because i am desperate does anyone know what to do about EXTREME AND SUDDEN BRAIN FOG ALL DAY ACCOMPANIRD BY FATIGUE IN THE LATE AFTERNOONS/EVENINGS fucjing HELP😂😂😂🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣
Situations where you exhibited cruelty?
I don’t know if it would be cruelty, but anger, rage, certain desires that would have never exhibited in my brother. There was a moment when I was 15 — I’ve been trying to articulate this for so long, and your question is putting me down the slippery slope. I’ve been trying to articulate it, because it’s important, but I’ve been ashamed. People ask me, why did you become a writer? I give the answer that makes sense: I went to Pace University, I tried business school because I wanted to help my mother. I couldn’t do it, and I went to Brooklyn College and to an English department, and then I became a writer. That’s not untrue, although I don’t know if it’s honest, and your question is now bringing me to this idea of cruelty and goodness. There was this one event when I was 15 that I think altered the course of my life, although at that time it was not an epiphanic moment. But the desire to be a writer probably started with the desire to commit myself to understanding suffering.
What was the moment?
I’m trying to be eloquent. I don’t know if I will be. I’ll say it first, then describe it. When I was 15, I decided to kill somebody.
Oh, my God.
I didn’t do it. Ah, my God. [Long pause.] I was working on the tobacco farm, and I rode my bike every day. It was five miles out. You wake up at 6 in the morning. I rode my bike, and I went to work mostly with migrant farmers. You’d get paid under the table, and if you show up every day, you get a $1,000 bonus at the end of the season. It was this hot July evening. I was in my room and I look out the window and see that someone has stolen my bike. It was someone I knew in our neighborhood. He was a drug dealer. You would put your bike outside on the stoop when you’re running in and out, and this guy was known to grab your bike, and there’s nothing you could do about it. But I snapped that day. I saw him, and I was so angry, because I knew: I’m not going to get this back, I’m going to lose my $1,000. For context: My mom made $13,000. I go outside and say, “Give me back my bike.” And essentially he said, “Eff off.” I lost it. I went across the street to my friend Big Joe’s house. I knocked on his window. I remember putting both of my hands on the windowsill. I have no shirt on. I’m sweating, I’m so angry, and I said, “Please let me borrow your gun.” [Vuong begins to cry.] I’m so sorry.
Can I give you a hug? [Vuong and I embrace.] I appreciate that you’re being honest, but if it’s too much, we can stop. OK?
I think what I’m trying to get at is that I didn’t become an author to have a photo in the back of a book. Writing became a medium for me to try to understand what goodness is. Because when I was begging my friend, “Please give me your gun,” he said: “Ocean, I’m not going to do that. You need to go home.” What was so touching to me is that I was not responsible for that. Someone else’s better sense saved me.
foolishly forgot about the paywall bc nyt let me read the article for free, here's a nonpaywalled version
