Honestly, The Reason Monsterfucker Discourse Is Useless Is That Nobody Can Agree Upon A Working Definition

Worth gowns, ca. 1900

literally the only thing that matters in life is creating what you love and genuinely loving other people. being hot is meaningless and depressing. being successful if your heart isn’t in it is meaningless and depressing. sex without affection is meaningless and depressing. partying or drinking with people you don’t like is meaningless and depressing. political posturing, saying stuff you don’t believe in for brownie points, performing opinions based on hollow moral schemas instead of listening to what your heart says about being kind and understanding, all meaningless and depressing.

I really enjoy just existing in hotels. The long identical hallways. The soulless abstract art. The weird noises the air-conditioner makes. Strange city lights in the window. Six stories off the ground. Strangers chatting in the hall. Nothing in the dresser. No past, but an infinite present. 

weird how nothing about u is like, too small or too dumb to know bc it all comes together to become YOU. sending your friend a picture of your favorite snack is saying something important whether u realize it or not. wheres that palahniuk quote

When we killed what we were to become what we are, what did we do with the bodies? We did what most people do; buried them under the floorboards and got used to the smell. I’ve lived my life like a serial killer; finish with one part, strangle it and move on to the next. Life in neat little boxes is life in neat little coffins, the dead bodies of the past laid out side by side. I am discovering, now, in the late afternoon of the day, that the dead still speak.

Jeanette Winterson, from “Gut Symmetries,” published c. 1998 (via violentwavesofemotion)

The Secret Garden (1993)

Excommunicated from the catholic church for sexy reasons

“Fiction teaches us that the sorrows of living are meaningful. Fiction restores the meaning. The experience which is being lived day by day may seem futile, destructive because the vision of totality is lacking. In the novel it acquires a pattern. It is fiction. It reaches beyond pain to the pattern of meaningfulness which consoles us for all the agonies, and uncovers elevations.”

Anaïs Nin, from The Diary of Anaïs Nin: Volume Five 1947-1955

Men hate it when I trap them in an inescapable labyrinth