One Big Dark Room

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Metal, politics, and baby animals. Sometimes I write short stories via crowd-sourcing on Twitter. I ask for a name, occupation and location, then make the rest of the stuff up and write the story within an hour or so. I also write some other things. To join the party, follow @ChloesThinking and await next steps.

twitter.com/ChloesThinking:

    How come #MetalMondays isn’t a thing? Can it be a thing?

    (Source: Spotify)

    — 3 weeks ago
    #music  #spotify 

    Getting what you want, by Elizabeth Taylor. (Excerpt from Richard Burton’s diary)

    — 1 month ago with 12 notes
    #love  #affairs  #affair  #Elizabeth Taylor  #richard burton  #elizabeth taylor and richard burton  #diamonds  #fighting  #loving  #marriage 
    nottobeadickoranything:

5th grader’s Dead Kennedys review.

    nottobeadickoranything:

    5th grader’s Dead Kennedys review.

    — 1 month ago with 12 notes
    bridiedoll:

The Doll Squad. Seduce and Destroy.

    bridiedoll:

    The Doll Squad. Seduce and Destroy.

    (via apocalypsedudes)

    — 1 month ago with 356 notes
    "Men start wars who couldn’t build a decent fence."
    Robert Frost (via runningmule)
    — 1 month ago with 3 notes
    "

    As women, when we’re children we’re taught to enter the world with big hearts. Blooming hearts. Hearts bigger than our damn fists. We are taught to forgive - constantly - as opposed to what young boys are taught: Revenge, to get ‘even.’ Our empathy is constantly made appeals to, often demanded for. If we refuse to show kindness, we are reprimanded. We are not good women if we do not crush our bones to make more space for the world, if we do not spread our entire skin over rocks for others to tread on, if we do not kill ourselves in every meaning of the word in the process of making it cozy for everyone else. It is the heat generated by the burning of our bodies with which the world keeps warm. We are taught to sacrifice so much for so little. This is the general principle all over the world.

    By the time we are young women, we are tired. Most of us are drained. Some of us enter a lock of silence because of that lethargy. Some of us lash out. When I think of that big, blooming heart we once had, it looks shriveled and worn out now. When I was teaching, I had a young student named Mariam. She was only 11 years old. Some boy pushed her around in class, called her names, broke her spirit for the day. We were sitting under a chestnut tree on a field trip and she asked me if a boy ever hurt me. I told her many did and I destroyed them one by one. I think that’s the first time she ever heard the word ‘destroyed.’ We rarely teach our girls to fight back for the right reasons.

    Take up more space as a woman. Take up more time. Take your time. You are taught to hide, censor, move about without messing up decorum for a man’s comfort. Whether it’s said or not, you’re taught balance. Forget that. Displease. Disappoint. Destroy. Be loud, be righteous, be messy. Mess up and it’s fine – you are learning to unlearn. Do not see yourself like glass. Like you could get dirty and clean. You are flesh. You are not constant. You change. Society teaches women to maintain balance and that robs us of our volatility. Our mercurial hearts. Calm and chaos. Love only when needed; preserve otherwise.

    Do not be a moth near the light; be the light itself. Do not let a man’s ocean-big ego swallow you up. Know what you want. Ask yourself first. Decide your own pace. Decide your own path. Be cruel when needed. Be gentle only when needed. Collapse and then re-construct. When someone says you are being obscene, say yes I am. When they say you are being wrong, say yes I am. When they say you are being selfish, say yes I am. Why shouldn’t I be? How do you expect a woman to stand on her two feet if you keep striking her at the ankles.

    There are multiple lessons we must teach our young girls so that they render themselves their own pillars instead of keeping male approval as the focal point of their lives. It is so important to state your feelings of inconvenience as a woman. We are instructed to tailor ourselves and our discomfort - constantly told that we are ‘whining’ and ‘nagging’ and ‘complaining too much.’ That kind of silence is horribly violent, that kind of insistence upon uniformly nodding in agreement to your own despair, and smiling emptily so no man is ever uncomfortable around us. Male-entitlement dictates a woman’s silence. If we could see the mimetic model of the erasure of a woman’s voice, it would be an incredibly bloody sight.

    On a breezy July night, my mother and I were sleeping under the open sky. Before dozing off, I told her that I think there is a special place in heaven where all wounded women bury their broken hearts and their hearts grow into trees that only give fruit to the good and poison to the bad. She smiled and said Ameen. Then she closed her eyes.

    "
    A Woman of War by Mehreen Kasana (via pbnpineapples)

    (via runningmule)

    — 1 month ago with 35135 notes
    #feminism  #women  #woman  #girls  #feminist 
    Thoughts On LA & The End of The World

    image


    What’s so interesting about LA is you can see the end of the world happening, right before your eyes. The Range Rovers and other needlessly large vehicles, putting along at three miles per hour on the freeway. The low-set haze, creeping around the horizon in front of you, no matter where you are. Millions of feet of hair extensions, fake tits, smiles that match their authenticity. And it’s not as awful as it sounds.

    This place is the biggest fucking freak show on earth, so you can really find some humor in it. You have to, as a means to survive without hating everything. The cruelty in it, and in where you find yourself coming from, is what’s crushing. Like, you find yourself laughing at people, not with them. You roll your eyes a lot, at the “skinny, grande, half-calf, sprinkle of chocolate, extra foam macchiato” orderers, who seem to think taking up ten minutes of a barista’s time is something their entitled to, because of a reality show appearance.

    And the constant. fucking. sunshine. It bleeds light onto everything that happens everywhere else that no one wants to see or deal with. That’s the huge difference between here and Portland (the last place I lived). There is no cloud covering across the sins. There is no denial of their existence, everything is ripped open and exposed, all those nasty parts of everyone that you could elsewhere ignore. It beats you down. You almost want to become one of em to pretend it’s not going on.

    But, on the other hand, Charles Bukowski is from here. So you just keep going.

    image

    — 1 month ago with 4 notes
    #LA  #los angeles  #depression  #sunshine  #writing  #life  #hollywood 

    rubbermaddox:

    Ilustrations by the incredible Carol Rossetti check her out and follow her here! http://carolrossettidesign.tumblr.com/

    (via onefitmodel)

    — 3 months ago with 269867 notes
    Last Night I Lit My Hair On Fire

    Last night I set my hair on fire. And not in some cool bra-burning, protest-type of way. I was leaning across a bar and trying to get the asshole bartender’s attention and all of a sudden I smell burning hair and notice that my hair was on fire. There was this dumb candle. It was one of those types of bars, you know, the ones where you have to get some horrible password emailed to you or something and then say it to the door guy. So you end up screaming “MILK AND MASHED POTATOES” or whatever outside of a trendy wooden door on a crowded street, while passer-bys look at you like you’re just another sign of the apocalypse.

    It’s like, “oh, getting drunk isn’t shameful enough? You feel the need to add more mortifying actions between me and my $20 beer?”

    So, yeah, I set my hair on fire while leaning over the bar, and the UCLA student behind it looked at me and was like, “yeah that’s probably going to smell for a couple of days.” LIke. Fuck off, student. I’m aware and going through the humiliation of having done this, so please, by all means, keep your non-witty, obvious commentary to a minimum. 

    Anyway, like the whole fucking bar of course is looking at me like I’m this drunk asshole when I was just trying to get my friends a drink. I looked at them all, right back, straight-faced, and said “Yeah. I leaned over the bar and my hair caught on fire. There is nothing really left to say.”

    So naturally I’ve been crying all day about my life and what it’s become, because last night I used a password to get into a bar where I failed at the excruciatingly simple task of not lighting myself on fire.

    It’s so humiliating, just even having a body.

    — 6 months ago with 2 notes
    #rant  #drinking  #short story  #bars  #life in bars  #me  #my life