Ellen Degeneres is the greatest because she doesn’t insult anyone but she doesn’t tiptoe around anything either and she includes everyone and she makes people feel good about themselves while poking fun at them and this is the kind of comedy that should be embraced at award shows not misogynistic songs about breasts
Sex is not a goddamn performance.
Sex should feel as natural as drinking water.
It should not require confidence.
Sex should happen, because the moment is ripe.
Ripening lips, ripening labia, ripening cock, ripening pupils, ripening state of being. Ripe and augmented and brimming. Your energy goes to your pumping heart, then to every external nerve, then to theirs, on fire.
You bask, roll, play in it. You sigh, moan, laugh.
It’s not about being “good in bed.”
It’s about being happy.
One should never worry if they’re doing it “correctly.” Sex is not factual. I don’t want your cookie-cutter sex, I don’t want your meticulously crafted, calculated, fool-proof fuck. I don’t want a show. I want you. Let your instincts, urges and whims define that. It’s enough.
What do most girls like? Forget about it. Statistics are meaningless when there’s only one. Hello, here’s me. Here’s you.
Don’t worry about taking it too slow. We got time. We got infinite rhythms, combinations, possibilities. Explore each fuck. Take our time. We can do a different one later.
Don’t worry about making me come. I’m here. Right where I want to be.
I am overwhelmed by wanting; you don’t have to convince me. I want you because I like you. So don’t put on a front. Don’t taint this.
I’m frustrated—it’s just authenticity I want.
Don’t say that something I like is ugly. Don’t compare yourself to the rest. You will live and die with and within your experiences like everyone else. If someone thinks you are amazing, they are not wrong. Their universe is as real as any other; it is forged through perception.
I don’t care if you accidentally slammed my head into the wall, if you slipped out, if my arm cracked, if the delightful pressure of your wet lips on my anything made a silly sound. There is no right way and no wrong way.
“Good in bed,” what.
You’re good in my bed. I’m pleased you’re there. I feel it suits you.
Shove your technique. Let your memory swallow it. Fuck me like you’d fuck me, fuck me like you feel.
This isn’t a test."
"The question beneath the high culture/low culture debate is a really interesting one, because I think it’s ultimately about what the meaning of human life is, and what we’re supposed to do with consciousness. When we fight about what we read and what deserves to be read closely, what we’re really fighting about is why we should read and write in the first place, which is a branch of the great and terrible question beneath all others: why should we even bother doing anything?" - John Green, Thoughts on How to Make Things & Why
strawberries, champagne, & Mad Men with my best friends, while we gaze over the city lights of Portland. What a perfect fucking weekend. I think back to earlier in the night, when we got sushi & sake with a friend and he said, “I feel like I’m watching an episode of GIRLS right now.” Yes, this is our life.