July 10, 2014
the laughing heart

your life is your life
don’t let it be clubbed into dank submission.
be on the watch.
there are ways out.
there is light somewhere.
it may not be much light but
it beats the darkness.
be on the watch.
the gods will offer you chances.
know them.
take them.
you can’t beat death but
you can beat death in life, sometimes.
and the more often you learn to do it,
the more light there will be.
your life is your life.
know it while you have it.
you are marvelous
the gods wait to delight
in you.

— by Charles Bukowski

November 24, 2013

Three is the magic number.

4:15am  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/ZnROGy-HS_qo
Filed under: baby pregnant 
October 30, 2013

They didn’t deserve candy


They didn’t deserve candy

June 20, 2013




11:40pm  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/ZnROGynqHOSQ
Filed under: pieohmy 
June 8, 2013
On Boston

I spent seven years in this place, but could never encapsulate its power like this woman can: 

This place is both more fragile and more courageous than it lets on. It has taken care of me, but it has never tried to impress me. Push farther, Boston seems to say. Work harder. Don’t complain. Just finish. There is an implicit understanding among us that whatever needs to be done we will do it, because that’s what we do.” - Josie Duffy

Read the whole thing on Gawker



May 27, 2013


Ernesto García “El Chango” Cabral

May 25, 2013
Hot, sweaty yoga and dudes.


I’m not sure why I’m always late. Usually it’s the result of excessive daydreaming, often while staring at a computer screen. I’ll be deep into some research about, say, “the mysterious death of Edgar Allen Poe,” or “What does it mean to dream about killer whales” or “large tiger-like cats/toygers”* and then, whoopsie daisy, I was supposed to start getting ready an hour ago. And now I have to be wherever I was going in ten minutes. Commence scrambling, swearing and sweating, etc., etc. 

I’ve always been a dawdler. A dilly-dally-er. I’ve done it since I was a little kid; following those little kite trails in my mind is soothing. But ok, I’m pushing 40. Time to start limiting my dawdling so that I stop pissing off my friends and pissing away productivity. Besides, lateness just leads to heart palpitations and recurring diarrhea.

Anyway. Yoga.

Every once in a while I need to switch up studios. Sometimes I’m having a Jane Fonda kind of day and want more of an aerobics vibe. Luckily, there’s this disco yoga studio in town that offers up a lovely breadth of hot yoga. It’s the leaves-you-drenched-in-sweat-while-listening-to-a-Britney-Bollywood-remix kind of yoga. If you’re in the right head space, it can be really cleansing. Other times, it can be an actual, literal, one hundred percent historically accurate representation of hell. Depends on the mood.  

Of course, I was running late and rolled into class with about two minutes to spare, which usually makes it tough to find a spot. But that day, there was a super awesome open space up by the front of the class. Sweet. I marched right up and claimed the spot and unrolled my mat and sat down and immediately realized why that spot was open. It was because it was directly next to an extremely hairy, extremely shirtless man whose hair was all white because he was definitely over the age of sixty-five. 

But no big deal. I can hang. Plus, yoga grampa was impressive. Yoga grampa was the kind of guy who gets to the studio first to warm up with a five minute headstand followed by a legs-over-the-shoulder arm balance, toes spread, the whole nine yards. He was doing some serious swami shit. Poses I had never seen before. Go grampa! You show that class! You tell people that OG yoga grampa is here to stay! Tell it with your BODY, mister! God DAMN!  

Class hadn’t even started yet and yoga grampa’s mat was already surrounded by what can only be described as a moat of sweat. 

After about five minutes, I noticed something was terribly wrong. We were all hanging out in downward dog, doing some deep breathing exercises, when it became apparent that someone had farted. Again—no big deal. Farts happen. But in HOT YOGA? Who’s the asshole? Literally. Whose asshole committed the crime? I automatically assumed it was yoga grampa. He was over sixty-five, after all. It’s not like he has the sphincter control of a young twenty-year-old buck. Oh, yoga grampa. Sometimes he does that. So I silently forgave him with lovingkindness and moved forward with strength and perseverance

But the scent persisted. And then it morphed. The more deep inhales I took, trying in vain to “follow my breath”, the smell had less of an egg undertone and took on a more musty, ripe note. And then, like a drunk suddenly remembering what exactly happened last night, my brain kicked into gear and I recognized the scent.

It was balls. Drenched-in-sweat, yoga grampa old man balls. 

Holyfuckingshit. Like someone was aiming a powerful hair dryer at his testicles and blowing it right toward my face. From two feet away. And scientifically, that’s pretty much what was happening. His ball particles had surrounded my entire body and were floating all up in my lungs and had infested my pores and was all over my hair. Like an old man ball bath. 

Things I considered doing: 1. Barfing; 2. Bursting into tears; 3. Developing old man ball deodorant; 4. Taking off my shirt and tying it around my face and finishing the class topless; 5. farting loudly in defiance and in an heroic attempt to neutralize the air quality. Instead, I stuck around for the entire hour and fifteen minutes, mouth breathing my way through all the poses, and narrowly avoiding loss of consciousness. 

And then I went home and took a bleach shower. 

Not my best yoga moment. Actually, it might have been the most disgusting, un-yoga moment of my life. It was more like the aforementioned hot yoga hell. I’m still getting over it. But I tell you what: from now on, Imma be on time to class. 

*pulled from google search history. Not a joke. 

May 24, 2013
Where I want to live out my days

Where I want to live out my days

(Source: sabino, via theyardpdx)

May 20, 2013

When it comes to matters of love, it’s often platonic devotion that proves the most intimate and carries the most weight in one’s life. It’s the love stories of friendship, the decades-spanning, unbreakable connection to someone that stays around as lovers come and go. Yes, romantic love is an all-encompassing illness of the heart, but without a best friend to guide you, life becomes less tolerable. Cinema has long been awash in tales of romantic love, of course, but it’s rare to see a tale of love between two female best friends, especially one that genuinely shows what it is like to have that kind of soul mate, without whom everything else would be askew. But with Noah Baumbach’s latest film, Frances Ha, we see one woman’s journey of self-discovery, ignited by a fractured friendship.

"Without a best friend to guide you, life becomes less tolerable." To all my best friends—and you know who you are—let’s go see Frances Ha. 

(via awelltraveledwoman)

May 20, 2013

Word on The Street


Word on The Street

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