#boog rants

[boognishs]

penguin....party?

[ittakestwopod]

Undertale is frustrating to me because the game is so good and the music is so good that when I finish playing I just want to listen to the soundtrack for a long time after, and then listening to the soundtrack makes me want to play the game again but I simply do not have time to be in a never-ending loop of playing Undertale

[animationismycomfort]

open season is genuinely a good movie and I will die on this hill

[bluboothalassophile]

Allergies SUCK.

I'm just going to rant for a hot sec because this is both fucking hilarious and concerning. I've worked in customer service for a long, hot minute and can honestly say this just... this takes the cake!

So a few mornings ago, I woke up, I didn't change out of my PJs which is a massively oversized men's cotton t-shirt, mini shorts (the indecent, will never wear in public but will wear around the house kind) messy hair, massive Ray-Ban aviators (I know, I look like I wanna be cool, but Top Gun, you will never win an argument from there). I felt like shit on 4 hours of sleep, and it's 6 in the morning, and I don't want to cook, I don't want to be awake, but dogs and allergies will not let me go back to bed. In my glorious, pathetic, state (still braless and not fully awake or functioning), I load up 3 golden retrievers (Boog, Minion, and the Terrorist), into my Subaru (I'm a classic Subaru commercial!) and we go to Chick-fil-A for breakfast (McDonalds is not a long enough car ride for the dogs, and honestly, I don't have patience for the stupidity required to go to Micky D's at 6 in the morning and with shitty midwesterner drivers), so we're going to Chick-fil-A, and I'm going to get breakfast. I have not spoken 2 words this morning, even to get the idiots loaded into the car, they heard me pick up car keys (curse my new job for giving me keys so now my key fob makes key noises alerting 3 idiots to my every move...) so my dogs all but carry me, to the car, no words, commands, or names exchanged between the chauffer and clients, they expect pupcups and hang time out the windows as I break the laws of physics and speed to get to my morning coffee and food.

All of us get to Chick-fil-A, again, I have not spoken a word this fair morning, so the voice box might not work fully yet, and I've had no coffee, so I pull up to the drive through order speaker and this broken, garbled, scraggled, smokes 10 packs a day with a bottle of whiskey voice scratches it way out of the depths of hell and my mouth to order the largest (which is pathetically small really) coffee, black, I can get, I proceed to place my order, and make the odd addition of sausage paddies (no pupcups or puppy paddies available, for shame on them, but it's their only sin so far this morning), I pull forward after getting my total, and get to the underpass and window and dig around for the wallet (which until that moment, I'm not entirely certain I haven't forgotten). I scrape up that odd $20 bill I have no idea where it came from, and the change from old tip money and turn to give it to the attendant there. I have taken off the sunglasses (green eyes are not as sensitive as blue, but it's still a fucking bitch to go from BRIGHT SUN! black shade; BRIGHT SUN!!, black shade again very quickly, and my eyes are already burning like no tomorrow (more on that later)); attendant takes the money and walks off. In my fogged, bleary state, did not think it odd, thought that them having to cook 3 naked sausage paddies might be the problem (it's an unusual request, I know, but you can clearly see I'm a Subaru commercial complete with three golden retrievers drooling out my back windw begging for pets, pupcups and someone to throw the fucking tennisballs I have on my passenger seat, and if that wasn't hint enough, the furricane blowing out of my recently vacuumed car that puts Peanut's Pigpen to shame should be clue enough that they are there). No coffee me is very much so not a morning person.

Attendant comes back with my order, and change, hands me my money and says 'I put a little gift in the bag! I hope you have a good morning!', I say 'thank you' in that horrific voice (which I don't know where it comes from because I don't smoke or drink), accept the bag and pull away whilst nearly being BLINDED by the sun, put on the sunglasses and squint through teary, bleary eyes the whole way home listening to rock-n-roll and country with three idiots hanging out my back window. I probably break speeding laws of the midwest by going the fucking speed limit, but that's a different matter. Three happy idiots banging out to rock-n-roll with tongues out and heads out are having fun, I am unable to see the road my eyes are burning so badly and everything hurts.

Get home, unload idiots, retrieve breakfast and coffee (no words spoken). Sit down, unpack breakfast, get cream for coffee and sit in silence and confusion. 3 sausage paddies for Boog, Minion and Terrorist who are all watching me with love, adoration and intent focus on the food; check. 1 (pathetically small), black coffee, check. 1 side of hashbrowns, check. 1 sausage egg biscuit, check. 1 brownie? I have no idea why there's a brownie there. Checks receipt in sleepy confusion.

3 sausage paddies.

1 sausage egg and cheese biscuit.

1 black coffee.

1 side of hashbrowns.

NO brownie.

I did not order the brownie. I am not opposed to the brownie, just confused to it's origins. Stares intently at brownie and shrugs it off, I figured they had a mix up and put the brownie in my order. I get up to get something, and see my reflection...

DO YOU KNOW HOW BAD YOU HAVE TO LOOK TO GET A FREE, PITY BROWN OUT OF CHICK-FIL-A!? NO!? I'LL TELL YOU!!!!!!

I look like hell.

My eyes are swollen nearly shut and so red you wouldn't know they're supposed to be green, and tears are streaming down my face, my cheeks and face are red, swollen and puffy, my lip is torn on the top lip and split on the bottom, my hair is a rats nest, my ear is bleeding, I look like death and bruise, my sleep t-shirt (my AZ Diamondbacks t-shirt, that is pale greyish-blue and black) is stained brown and red from blood, my arms and legs are scratched up and green and blue from bruises, while my neck is bleeding, my exposed shoulder looks like it's suffering a second degree chemical burn, I look like I was mauled and thrown in a poison oak bush for good measure.

I'm perfectly fine, by the way, my eczema has just been kicking my ass these last few weeks and I've had a particularly nasty break out. The bruises on my legs were from bumping into and falling down the stairs with a laundry basket when the Terrorist came crashing into my knees trying to invoke a race. The scratches and raw skin are me and my eczema. Nothing bad has happened to me, but I'm certain that poor attendant thought something had.

Still, working customer service, I know how BAD you have to look to even invoke some level of sympathy or empathy from a customer service employee or get anything free for that matter. Which elicits a level of mortification and flattery on my part that I even got a free brownie.

To that attendant though, thank you! You made my week, and it was an awesome brownie! But I promise, I'm not as bad as I look at this moment.

[gumpistol]

❤️ + belovedcorvid

Send ❤️ + a URL and I’ll write something nice about them/their blog!

   rabbit is, without a doubt, a beautifully kind and selfless person, who wants so badly to wrap us all in cozy blankies, when he deserves the same in return. i have never met a more patient, calming, and warm person. and when i see him on my dash or whenever he's in my DMs sending me stuff, regardless of what it might be, i can't help the smile that comes onto my face. i've said similar before and i'll say it again, but talking to rabbit is akin to a gently rocking boat or the vibrations felt when sitting on a sea wall while waves crash into it. that sounds so cheesy, but i personally find being on or near the water calming, so that's what i associate the rabbit with lol

   that being said, he and i started talking here, on luffy's blog originally, where i immediately held him at water gun point demanding straw hat Cora.  i really really love his portrayal of Cora and we share several similar headcanons between the two of us, so this definitely helped kick off some of our early discussions. that and i think the very first thing we talked about was muay thai, because it's in my discord bio. 

   anyway, the rest was history after that, because then i dragged rabbit into everything: so many threads for cora and luffy, all the smoker and cora content ( which eventually transformed into a whole backstory with rocinante involved and an unexpected ship ), straw hat interactions with his OC Eden, and then most recently, i virtually grabbed rabbit by the shirt collar and shook him around to once again make a demand, that Eden be a part of my OC Boog's crew. that's exactly how it all went. if he says otherwise, it's a lie.

   rabbit is also incredibly smart and creative. he's super talented with knitting, even if he can't make two socks at once. his dioramas and monster furbies are super cool too, and i love when he wants to talk about them with me and tell me about it!! on top of that, despite an undoubtedly stressful and exhausting job, he doesn't mind my rants about work, he tolerates my tangents and rambles, he deals with me when i'm stressed, and he humors all the ideas that swarm in my brain like bees. how does he do it all and ALSO tap trees during sugar season?? i don't know. he truly is amazing~

   anyway, sorry again, this got so long, but all-in-all i don't think i can find the right words to truly say how much i appreciate rabbit. he deserves all the love and affection and then more!! anyway i'm gonna go cry now because i got all sappy and emotional from running on three hours of sleep and red bull ;-; i love you rabbit <3 it's my turn to wrap you in a cozy blanket and make you some tea

from @mingos , for @belovedcorvid

[squipy-shippy]

2024 Info page!!!

Heya I'm squipy it's very nice to meet you. I'm a 21 year old aroace lesbian (any prns) who's been self snipping for a while but I never really got Into the community until recently. What else is there uuuuh well I'm autistic, I have 3 amazing irl partners,I love space,tech,music,animals,video game and cartoons. On this blog your mostly just going to see me rambling about fictional women maybe some edits and writing but yeah I'd love to be friends my ask are always open :D

Also if you'd prefer to not read a bunch of text here is my carrd with basically the same Info

I also do edits so if you wanna request somthing read this carrd and just send me an ask

BYF:

I am an adult however I won't be posting NSFW things very often and if i do it will be tagged with nsft and my tag I ask anyone under the age of 18 to block this tag

Sharing is fine I'm not going to ruin your safe space if you don't ruin mine so all I ask is just don't be a jerk and shove it in my face thinking your ship is more cannon or whatever

As stated I do have autism I also have anxiety so I ask please keep me out of drama I don't wanna be apart of it.

I fade in and out of f/o's and self shipping a lot mostly due to autism and me not being an artist sooo yeah

As stated this is my side blog the blog you'll see me interacte from is @squipy

DNI:

Bigots (homophobic,racist,misogynistic etc)

Transmeds

Pro ship/ers com ship/ers and those that are neutral on the subject

Rad queers (idc if I'm cross taging you I don't like you)

Anti xenogenders and neopronouns

Grammar police (people that constantly correct others spelling and grammar)

Anyone under the age of 15

F/O list:

Here it is the moment you've all be waiting on. Now this list isn't in any real order however demencia at the time of this post is my main f/o

Demencia-villinous-r-#🦎💻

Adagio dazzle-mlp eg-r -#🧜‍♀️👓

Cadence-club penguin-r-#🐧🎧

Roxxane wolf-fnaf-r-#🚘🐺

King boo-Mario-r-#👑⭐️

Claire-cyberpunk 2077-r-#🛻🌃

Undyne-undertale-r-#🐟🌙

Alphys-undertale-r-#🥼🌙

Lord dominator-woy-r-#👽🌋

Toriel-undertale-r-#🐑💌

Steve-blues clues-f-#🔍💙

Josh schmitty-jackbox/ydkj-f-#🩳💜

Cookie masterson-jackbox/ydkj-f-#🍪🧡

boog-fanboy & chum chum-f-#👊🥤

Flowey-undertale-p-#🏵😤

Here is some other tags that I use

#🔞😏-nsft and suggestive tag!!! Plz block this tag if you are under 18

#🤬🗣- my ranting tag mostly about things that upset me in the self ship community

#🐟🌙🥼-poly undertale tag

#🦜🐧⚗️-poly indigo park tag

#🩳🍪👪-jackbox family tag

[boogafterdark]

dumping my thoughts on here because my other blog has a following and even though yes, that IS ME and i do enjoy posting all silly and whatnot, some element of the boog blog IS a persona that i've crafted and a part i've decided to play on the internet. is it fun as hell??? YES. does it get draining??? also yes!!! burnout is REAL and sometimes i feel like i've dug myself too deep into a hole where people expect me to ALWAYS be funny all the time... sure i can usually be silly but like everything it ebbs and flows and as a perfectionist i really hold myself to a high standard (as silly as it sounds) for posting on that blog. but yeah, idk exactly what im gonna use this for or how you'll end up finding it, but welcome welcome if you've arrived!!! welcome to boog after dark, enjoy my unfiltered thoughts and rants about... idk. a lot of things.

[apas-95]

I think the funniest manifestation of ‘only knows about class analysis and socialism by osmosis from Reading Posts’ is people who don’t know the petite-bourgeoisie exists.

Like, ‘if your money comes from your labour, you’re proletarian; if it comes from owning things, you’re bourgeois’ is like, certainly a better description than liberal income bracketing, but it ignores the existence of worker-owners, of small-producers, and of the intellectuals and managers. A small-business owner who works in their own store alongside their employees certainly isn’t proletarian, but they’re still ‘a worker.’ A small-producer or tradesman who has their own business, but doesn’t employ anyone, surely isn’t the bourgeois pig you want to grind into sausage - but at the same time, neither are they exactly a proletarian, are they? At the same time, these people labour, but they also aspire for upwards mobility. The plumber who starts his business hopes to take on an apprentice, the small-business owner hopes to open a second location she doesn’t have to work at.

This dual character, these split allegiances, are also at play with people who assuredly make their money from their labour, but are elevated above the other workers. Intellectuals, and technical workers with fancy university degrees - they make more money, have better job security, and do less strenuous physical labour than their fellow workers in warehouse jobs. Maybe they’ll even get to start their own firm in a decade, retire with some passive income. They work, but they like their position in the status quo, they don’t have ‘nothing to lose but their chains.’ The same goes for managers, who are more directly lorded over their fellow workers, enforcing bourgeois control of production. It’s not like they don’t work, but they don’t want to leave the office and get on the line, do they? Hell, it applies to cops, too, in the most direct sense. They’re paid extremely well for their labour, defending capital and capitalism, but they’re not exactly ‘capitalists’ - the oversimplified understanding of class would imply cops were proletarian, holding the same interests as the rest of the working class!

People see class as a moral category - a binary, where Prole means Good and Boog means Bad - instead of a political-economic analysis of society. People are afraid of being one of the Bad People, and start deciding the only real bourgeois are multi-trillionaires, and that their small-business doesn’t count, since they’re still poor; or their cushy office job and million-dollar house don’t count, because they don’t own capital. Funnily enough, Contrapoints, of all people, used this incorrect definition of class to try to discredit Marxism in her weird, transphobic video rant about nonbinary people - apparently without reading any Marx!

[tendie-defender]

Alright, I have never posted a rant but I have a serious bone to pick. I have a serious disgust with some people of the firearms community that has posted replies to a handful of my posts regarding minority groups embracing their right to self defense and police brutality.

Some of individuals have responded with the blatantly racist comment “ya give felons guns”. This comes from people who have said the government doesn’t give rights. So how exactly does their birth rights end because of past actions? The type of person that makes this comment is the same ones that beat their wife and psychologically abuses their kids. You all can go walk off a short peer.

To the people who are actually defending the police brutality against peaceful protesters. No less than 2 months ago you were all ready to “boog” if the government sent national guard to enforce lockdown. Yet now you are deepthroating leather boots like your trying out for porn. Just shut the fuck up. There is a massive difference between the protesters and those who have hijacked a good cause purely to loot property. You causally talk about fighting against the government when in actuality you would bitch out. You are all fucking cucks.

Hate me I don’t care.

[aworldthatspaintedgold]

Bit of a wrestlemania rant here.

I personally think, they could have made both nights so good, if they booked the matches better.

Have one woman’s championship matches each night instead of both in night one? And then have one of the (arguably) more exciting matches on each night- AJ and Edge night one, Roman and brock night 2.

Had I planned it. I would have had

Night 1- the usos and boogs, nakamura

Johnny vs Sami

The Miz and Logan vs mysterios

Becky vs Bianca

Lashley vs Omos

Edge vs AJ

Ko and Stone Cold

Night 2: the new day vs sheamus and that guy

Woman’s tag team match

Drew vs Corbin

Austin vs Pat

Charlotte and Ronda

Mens tag team

Cody vs Seth

Roman and Brock

LIKE? Does that make sense to anyone else?! Having decent matches both nights because I felt like night one was just filler matches with one, maybe 2 decent matches

[boognishs]

i have autumn coyote pride masterpieces in my den! 15 dims each but also can trade for one if im online :3 if im out feel free to ask for a copy!! also taking requests if theres a high enough demand for em!!

[auskultu]

Leonard Cohen: Beautiful Creep

Richard Goldstein, The Village Voice, 28 December 1967

And the child on whose shoulders I stand 
 whose longing I purged 
with public, kingly discipline 
today I bring him back 
 to languish forever, 
not in confession or biography, 
 but where he flourished 
 growing sly and hairy 
 — Leonard Cohen (‘The Spice Box of Earth’)

AN ELEVATOR man with hairy hands grumbles “shit,” as he takes me up. It is a massive mid-town hotel, in steep decline. The corridors are long and lit occasionally, like a cardboard coal mine. Humid ladies in black lace seem to peer from every transom, and old men with their backs turned lurk in every shadowy corner. There is a smell of stale cigars, or is it piss? I knock politely on a wafer-thin door, and wait.

Finally it opens, and Leonard Cohen, Canada’s most acclaimed young poet and novelist, offers a seat and some coffee. He has been listening to a tape of the half-completed album on which he will soon make his debut as a pop star (a year ago that would have given even me pause, but not today, when Leonard Bernstein picks the hits and the Partisan Review talks about “Learning from the Beatles”). His verse—collected in slim volumes perfect for pressing roses—so unabashedly romantic that it sits among my New Directions paperbacks like some later day Ossian from the North.

With Annie gone 
 whose eyes to compare 
 with the morning sun.
 Not that I did compare, 
but I do 
 now that she’s gone. 
— ‘For Annie’

No wonder Allen Ginsberg huffed out of a meeting with Leonard Cohen muttering, “This place looks like a ballet set.” There is a sinewy quality to those muscular images as they stretch across a page. There is a shameless agility to those leaps and conceits, which seems ethereal next to the boog-a-loo of modern verse.

But Leonard Cohen is a Visceral Romantic and he can hit you unawares because his emotions are recollected with anything but tranquility. He suffers gloriously in every couplet. Even his moments of ecstasy seem predicated on hours of refined despair. Leonard does not rant: he whispers hell and you must strain to hear his agony.

The fact is, I’m turning to gold, turning to gold. 
It’s a long process, they say it happens in stages. 
 This is to inform you that I’ve already turned to clay.
 — ‘The Cuckold’s Song’

Today, he faces me across a hotel room with the sun shining second hand in the windows down the block. The drapes are as florid as his verse. In fact, the room could be the set for most of his poems. The bedspread is faded, and you can hear the toilet. Atop the bureau is a seashell ashtray, embossed with Miami palm trees. To this pasteboard Chappaqua, Leonard Cohen has added only a Madonna decal for the mirror, and a terrible cold.

His front pockets bulge with tissues and Sucrets. The cold seems appropriate; his nose aches to be filled anyway. It is a huge nose, etched by some melancholy woodcarver into the hollows of his cheeks. He wipes it and wheezes gently as we hear a tape of his song, ‘Teachers’.

Though he claims he has always written with a typewriter for a guitar (“I sometimes see myself in the Court of Ferdinand, singing my songs to girls over a lute”), Leonard Cohen has been spending this past year or so creating lyrics with real melodies. He made his pop debut recently as Judy Collins’ beautiful person. Her choice was inspired; Leonard Cohen has written her best material—songs of love and torment powerful enough to be fairy tales.

And just when you mean to tell her
 That you have no love to give her
 Then she gets you on her wave length
 And she lets the river answer
 That you’ve always been her lover.
 And you want to travel with her
 And you want to travel blind 
And you know that she will trust you 
For you’ve touched her perfect body with your mind.
 — ‘Suzanne’

“I think my album is going to be very spotty and undistinguished,” he says in greeting. His eyes sag like two worn breasts. “I blame this on my total unfamiliarity with the recording studio. They tried to make my songs into music. I got put down all the time.” He sits back on his bed, folds his hands in his lap, and lets his voice fade into an echo of itself: “It was a continual struggle… continual… they wanted to put me in bags. I thought I was going to… crack up.”

He is modestly addicted to cracking up. References to breakdowns past and future dot his conversation. He seems to judge periods in his life by his failure to cope with them. His favorite words—or those he uses most frequently—are “wiped out” and “bewildered.”

“When you get wiped out—and it does happen in one’s life—that’s the moment… the REAL moment. Around 30 or 35 is the traditional age for the suicide of the poet, did you know that?” (You look around for razors, pills, sharp edges, or easy plunges.) “That’s the age when you finally understand that the universe does not succumb to your command.”

That moment magnified into theme, is the chief concern of his major novel, Beautiful Losers. It is a multisexual love story, ecstatically, lyric like his poems, but deeply committed as prose to expressing its theme through an accumulation of detail. Its protagonist, a petty researcher, is victimized by the love of his wife and of his best friend. They control his life: soothe him, fuck him, teach him, cuckold him, and ultimately destroy him. Their triangle, joined on all sides, is further complicated by Catherine Tekakwitha, an Indian saint who fixes herself in the protagonist’s consciousness as an extension of his wife (also an Indian) and his own suffering. Martyred by the suicides of both his lover-tormentors, our hero is left to ponder the moral of Catherine’s life: suffering is madness, but it is also the sacred ground where Man encounters God. Somehow, we are all fated to walk that ground, is Leonard Cohen’s message. To embrace that agony of communion is to live with grace.

It begins with your family But soon it comes round to your soul.
 Well, I’ve been where you’re hanging 
I think I can see where you’re pinned
 When you’re not feeling holy
 Your loneliness says that you’ve sinned.
 — ‘Sisters of Mercy’

He was born in Montreal, to a wealthy Jewish family. “I had a very Messianic childhood,” he recalls. “I was told I was a descendent of Aaron, the high priest. My parents actually thought we were Cohenim—the real thing. I was expected to grow into manhood leading other men.”

He led himself through McGill, where he studied literature with Oxonian aplomb. A professor published a volume of his poetry on the University press, and Leonard Cohen became a writer. It was, he insists, “as accidental as that.” Because if he had had a choice, he would have become a revolutionary. But he approached radicalism with a bad cold, and a thorough knowledge of the Tonette. Though the Montreal Communists fascinated him with their paranoia and their certainty, he was less than embraced by his chosen confreres. “They saw me as a symbol of the decline of the enemy,” he recalls. “I never had that heroic revolutionary look. There was a certain openshirted quality I could never duplicate, I always looked different, maybe because my folks owned a clothing factory.”

Today, he wears poet’s gray, and a soft worker’s hat hangs on his closet door. He is getting old; the trousers of his cuffs are automatically rolled. He watches you jot that down in the middle of a point about politics and you wonder if he knows you plan to use it.

“I’m not a writer coming to music in the twilight of his youth,” he says suddenly. You look up. He begins to discuss the rock scene, then and now. Once, he thought Elvis Presley the first American singer of genius. Once, he played a Ray Charles record till it warped in the sun. Once, he thought of himself as Bob Dylan’s ancestor. “It wasn’t his originality which first impressed me, but his familiarity. He was like a person out of my books, singing to the real guitar. Dylan was what I’d always meant by the poet—someone about whom the word was never used.”

Until a short time ago, Leonard Cohen had never heard Dylan. He has spent much of the past seven years in a cottage on Hydra, Greece. He still returns there regularly for replenishment, the way F. Scott Fitzgerald’s heroes should have gone back to the Midwest. It keeps him from making too many scenes outside himself; that seems to be the scene he can make best.

Anyhow, you fed her five MacKewan Ales 
 took her to your room, put the right records on, 
 and in an hour or two it was done. 
 I know all about passion and honor 
but unfortunately, this had really nothing to do with either: 
 Oh, there was passion I’m only too sure 
 And even a little honor 
but the important thing was to cuckold Leonard Cohen 
I like that line because it’s got my name in it.
 — ‘The Cuckold’s Song’

“I wrote ‘Beautiful Losers’ on Hydra, when I’d thought of myself as a loser, financially, morally, as a lover, and a man. I was wiped out; I didn’t like my life. I vowed I would just fill the pages with black or kill myself. After the book was over, I fasted for ten days and flipped out completely. It was my wildest trip. I hallucinated for a week. They took me to a hospital in Hydra. One afternoon, the whole sky was black with storks. They alighted on all the churches and left in the morning… and I was better. Then, I decided to go to Nashville and become a song writer.”

He came to New York instead, thanks to a lady who is now his manager. And here he is—slaving over the songs he calls “Eastern Country laments,” trying to make them sound the way they read. Things are happening for Leonard Cohen. ‘Suzanne’, his best known lyric, made the charts on a vacuous cover version by Noel Harrison. Two recent compositions appear on the latest Judy Collins album. And Buffy Sainte Marie will include selections from Beautiful Losers on her next LP. Sometimes the two visit Saint Patrick’s, where there is a bas relief of St. Catherine on one of the Cathedral doors. Buffy puts daisies in the statue’s hair. “She sees the suffering in Catherine,” he explains. “She feels the thumping on the sky.”

If his forthcoming album is a good one, Leonard Cohen may well become one of history’s odder choices for pop stardom. But the men we deem to worship are never ordinary; that is the one passion they must guard against. If the time is ripe for a guru with a cold in the ego, Leonard Cohen’s modest agony will stand him in good stead.

“My songs are strangely romantic,” he admits, “but so are the kids. I somehow feel that I have always waited for this generation.” He pulls out a letter from a young girl who wonders over his unremitting despair. He frightens her because she senses that he has achieved an understanding of life, but he is sad despite it. She prays that the comprehension she seeks will not bring her such misery. She prays for him, and for herself, that he is really blind. And she ends by calling Leonard Cohen a “beautiful creep.”

Real tears form in the corners of his eyes, but modestly, they do not flow. He sighs for real. “That’s what I am—a beautiful creep.” He excuses himself and you grab for the letter when he is gone. That too is real.

Beautiful creep! You can’t help hearing him in the toilet; he pisses in quick panting spurts. You want to put him to bed with hot milk and butter, turn up the vaporizer, and kiss him good night.

And you want to travel with him 
 And you want to travel blind 
 And you think maybe you’ll trust him 
For he’s touched your perfect body with his mind.
 — ‘Suzanne’

[gayish-all-the-gaytime]

Have you ever met a girl that just takes your breath away? Cause it’s one am and I can’t stop thinking about the woman that came into my life and stole my oxygen. I can’t stop thinking about her now, I couldn’t stop thinking about her at midnight either, or 11pm, 10pm, 9pm, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1 and ever since she started staring at me with her beautiful eyes.

Have you ever met a girl where she’s the most beautiful woman you’ve ever seen but she’s also kind, and considerate, and funny, and flirty, and nerdy in all the best ways?

Have you ever met a girl that couldn’t see how amazing she was and you just wanted to hug her until she saw it too and listen to her talk and learn her story?

Have you ever found a girl like that and walked away cause no matter how much you two flirt, no matter how much you care about her, you know making a move will only drag her into more drama she doesn’t deserve?

Cause if you met that girl you would know like I know, that being her friend is an honor in itself and you would do anything to keep her from getting hurt.

[kelpsyberri]

One of the worst things about being Trans™ is everyone assumes that we all have to hate our birth name. Even worse is when people take it upon themselves to give you a masculine/feminine version of your birth name. Like I get that you're trying to do this with good intentions but ask first.....

[atlasandtheworld22]

Happy birthday to this stone cold fox! Thanks for branching my taste in music, giving me guidance/listening to me rant, flickin' boogs all summer, and being a great friend. Oregon State isn't the same without you, so come back so we can check all the buildings off the list! Love ya man

[euos-the-cat]

Ace is on the phone with his gang, ranting about the kids. He hears something behind him. It's Boog.

"oh shi- uh.. h-hey buddy.. how long ya been standin' there?"

".. help me get the peppers or I'm tellin' Murdie"

"eep- o-okay okay-"

@snobgoblin as the resident Ace expert, I must ask: how do you think phase 5 would've gone with Murdoc's three 4 year old kids with the band?