1. Woman to sit in my bath tub full of ramen noodles (brooklyn)



    I will pay you $175 to sit in my bath tub full of ramen noodles wearing a bathing suit

    I will not be home, nor will anyone else while you do this.

    I will give you the keys while we meet, and you will go to my apartment thereafter.

    It will require a 30 minute soak.

    The noodles will be cooked and therefore slippery.

    Do not bring any sauce. I will season the sauce after I get home prior to dinner.

  2. pussylipgloss:

    getting big

    (Source: illleagle, via commovente)


  3. "My entire life can be described as standing in a long line
    And then getting to the register
    And even after all that time standing in line
    I haven’t decided what I want
    And I pick something I don’t like
    And eat two bites
    And throw it out"

  4. I was doing research on boring conversations and what people want to avoid to hear and one of them was “your dream last night” and

    Yesterday when I took a nap I had a dream that we were living in a post-apocalyptic world and white powders were considered to be extremely vital and one day when I was walking back to my apartment we got the notice that there were white powders found so we couldn’t get back in. I then went to the convenient store right downstairs and behind me was a man asking me if he should get the frozen milk green tea that he’s always considered getting but never did. I told him yes it’s going to be worth it and then we waited in line together in silence thinking about how he trusted his last drink with me.

    But I guess that is boring and this morning

    I had an every-day dream in which I was living day after day after day in the make-up world so comfortably that when I woke up at noon (3.5 hours after my alarm) I felt displaced & I knew a lot of time has passed and now I feel like real time is a vacation I don’t deserve


  6. nafiy:

    In the middle of the night I wondered how our body is actually designed. Molecules and consciousness accompanied by hormones and alter-egos. Sentiments and pain, words and gestures, hunger and starvation, for anything, for everything. And anything and everything. All that the world can give, has…

    #throwback to when i was in rio & would stay up writing random shit b/c the receptionist in the hostel was really cute

  8. brightwalldarkroom:

    "I have forgotten all the major stories, and yet I could carve in bone my memory of a dozen tiny, quiet scenes:

    Betty, sitting in a late-day Roman glow, her hair whipped and molded into a European chignon. Looking so modern it was as if she alone dragged in the backdrop change, inventing the ’60s. As if she’d finally shed the kids like a dead skin or a fire and emerged, victoriously golden. Reborn. How the Italian men hit on her and insulted Don when he approached, as a stranger. Which was perfect, right? Because how long had it been since they’d known each other at all? I’d etch in how he fell back in love, madly so, with Betty for two days. With this restored, empowered version of her. All cold upper class beauty, all superiority, all linguistic-flexing power. Too good for him, which is the key to everything.

    I’d etch the repose of Roger’s tired face when he calls Joan late at night, with Jane, the regrettable wife, passed out beside him.

    Peggy’s hand on Don’s after Anna dies. This single brief touch a complete swelling orchestra composed to explain the depth of their bond and its tenuousness. How vital and still wildly vulnerable this tie is in the possession of a man so accustomed to scorching any tenderness entrusted to him.

    Everything encompassed in the moments Don calls Betty “birdie.” The whole rattling film projection of their courtship and marriage and children and infidelities and lies and second tries and reheated dinners. And the end that Betty pretends comes with the bang of Dick Whitman’s betrayal, and not years of whimpers. Every aching sweetness remains in “birdie,” somehow fossilized and surviving but useless as a mate-less bull.

    The literal restraint of the characters—their buttoned-up loneliness. The moments of elegant non-response and suffocated reaction. The things they do not tell each other, the fights they don’t finish, the slaps that aren’t delivered. The communicative release they never allow themselves (even as it might be their salvation).

    Sometimes, I find myself watching  Mad Men through a sort of fantasy lens, as if it were an underwater ballet. A cold, slow-floating drift of Asian dance and sad, silent theater.

    It’s hypnotizing.”

    —Erica Cantoni, "I Won’t Have My Heart Broken" (Bright Wall/Dark Room magazine, June 2013)

  10. If we land this apartment…