You were always hungry

When the black furry creature you carried around on your shoulder for his kitten life gets sick and isn't around any more to snuggle, what else is there to do but be a teary mess every time he pops into your head?
You wish that you told him you loved him more (but I think he understood that well enough when he used to claw his way up the back of my legs.)
I used to wish he wouldn't sit purposely on my pile of clean, ironed clothes when he would jump on my bed.
I used to wish he would snuggle for longer, but he was always hungry.
I used to wish he wouldn't dig his claws in when he was purring like a crazy kitty.
I used to wish his fur didn't cover the white lounge suite, coating my clothes in it.
Now I just wish I could have been there to hug him goodbye.
I wish he would come to sit on my bed wherever he pleased.
I don't care that he was always hungry, I would be grateful for the short snuggle I could get before he started wriggling towards his food bowl.
I don't mind if his hair had covered all the furniture in the house and we were to reside in a black furry igloo.

So when it's something you love, there's no point wishing it was even a little bit different. Because it seems like in the end none of that matters. What matters isn't the fur on the couch, or the scratches down my legs, the numerous messes I cleaned up that should have been in the garden, or the shortest snuggles in the world, it's colossal amount of love you have despite this.

I just love you Teddy. I'm not a crazy cat woman, I'm just crazy about you.

America

A hate filled and deliriously happy society shown on the front page of every Western news paper is disgusting. Watching the David Letterman show making jokes of a death "live from hell", is far from right. Why are people entertained by this?

5 things to marvel at

1.) A middle-aged woman sitting on the train smiling to herself texting.
2.) A man dashing across the road with a bunch of orange flowers.
3.) A chalk scribbled pavement pointing to a box of splendid free things.
4.) A smiley face balloon placed right in the middle of the footpath at 8am.
5.) A man singing Hallelujah like he never knew another song.

the tear stealer

There are 2 ways of looking at things and I often wonder why it is the negative one that draws you in and steals your tears. I want my tears to be used on the times I'm so happy I just don't know what else to do.

12486

It rhymes and swears.
It gets you high and gets you low.
It brings out the alter ego.
It makes you reminisce.
It beats like a heart.
It gets in your head regardless of whether you want it there.
It makes damaged ear drums worth it.
It makes you whistle down the street, like the moronically happy person everyone can be.

I'm just,

happy!

One must always appreciate life's little gifts.

(im)perfection

I can feel the chip on my left tooth.
I can see the bruise on my thigh, the freckles across my nose, the wild mane that always manages to get itself out of the ponytail,
and the cuts on my feet from getting too excited about the rock pools at Collin's Bay.
I don't want any of these to be different. Then how would I remember the stories that got them here?

Imperfection is memories.

It's the night you got your corona bottle knocked at a year 12 party.
The afternoon you ventured rock jumping from a loony height.
The day you forgot the spf 30.
The time you cared more about looking at limpets than the state of your feet.
And the decision to cut off all your locks without thinking about the repercussions of a grown-out mullet 6 months later.

I wonder how many bobby pins I have gone through in my life?

Lilliputian · [lil-i-pyoo-shuhn]

This is the cutest thing I have seen in yonks.

It's all little, and furry, and fluffy, with its squinted- closed eyes, and miniature whiskers and miniscule ears.

How can such a pewny thing have me gushing so much over it?
I need to get a grip. But fuck, this is just a kitten, and boy is it adorable much.

1.42

It starts. The music pulls my body with it, not caring for limits, not caring for pain, not caring for anything but the love of it.
The beat tunes with my body's.
My head is thrown with my arms like everything's detached.
The heaving breaths are lost in the muggy air, my dripping hair stuck to my face.

I'm alive.

This is when my smile and tears come at the same time.
This is when I don't think.
This is when I just do.
This is the minute forty two.

Wanting

Sometimes the anticipation is better than the moment. And the desire is better than the result. And the number that isn't called is more painful than the bruised knees. The replaying is easier than the acceptance. And the questions have more possibilities than the answers.

This is when you don't get what you want.

My rules for the new season? There are no rules.

Numbered sentences as to why womens' magazines are nonsensical:

1.) Why are we told what not to wear? Not to accessorize the accessory. What if I want to fucking accessories the shit out of the accessory? What if I don't want to accessorize at all?

2.) HARPERS BAZAAR: get back to me when you come up with something that's a little less sheer than Wolford sheers because YOUR RULES FOR THE NEW SEASON just aren't cutting it. I don't want rules.

3.) I could go on but then I'd be wasting my time writing about something that really grinds my gears.

Buy NAT GEO.

Eskimo Joe

An Eskimo has no permanent possessions to be stolen, no towns to be invaded, no class system to be slotted into. And while they might not have the labels, they wear real fur. While they might not have an iPod they make their own music. And while this may never be read while an Eskimo, I think sometimes, I would like to be one.