1. poked my fingers fulla holes on these ones

  2. zdarsky:

    Please keep in mind that I work for a NATIONAL newspaper. And yet they still find the time and space to keep me humble. Thanks, guys!

    (via kateordie)


  3. Alvvays - Archie, Marry Me

    posting a cover of this later/tomorrow

    (Source: going-to-scranton)


  4. We lay in the dark and he told me I should draw him, or paint him, and inside I laughed because he will never see all the sketchbook pages he has already graced.

  6. Here’s a really poorly shot video that I got while riding past Steve Powers’ mural on the way towards Clifton Park. This thing rocks, I’ve been wanting to see it in person for months and I had no idea our route would take us past it. Flying past in a crowd of bikes at sunset only made the experience dreamier..

  7. Bike party photo dump #2

  8. Bike party photo dump #1

  9. Bike party round 2 🚲🎉 #peace #love #family

  10. had a pile of nice boys sleep on my floor last night

  11. winterezra:

    Strange and foreboding things happening in Baltimore.

    is it art

  12. and for my 666th post here is a peek at an in-the-works sketchy mess about things I don’t even fully formed thoughts on but will probably still finish and post later on


  13. "

    Of course, you can always say—it is funny. What wouldn’t be funny is if something happened—if your money had been stolen, if your virginity had been stolen, if your life had been stolen. But nothing happened. You freaked out over nothing. And that’s funny.

    That “nothingness” you identify? That’s where women live. That’s where we breathe. It’s what we put on in the morning, it’s how we walk down the street, it’s how we make the decisions that govern our lives.

    Male friends, respect the nothing. Respect the feelings, the fears, the frustrations. Even if it doesn’t make sense to you, even if it doesn’t fit in your categories of touch, take, trample, it exists. I promise. Feminism is recognizing and honoring that realities you don’t see affect a woman’s life. Let her speak her nothing, let her blog about her nothing, let her cry to you about her nothing. Don’t let him—your best friend, your teammate, your classmate, yourself— ignore that nothing, mock that nothing, or create that nothing. Or, if you like, don’t call it feminism. Call it humanism: recognizing that your nothing may be the other person’s everything.

    — Nancy Ritter, “Fast Food Feminism

  14. I caught up with one of my best friends from high school last night and we prettymuch went through the list of people we remember and reminisced about everything and it was mostly really funny

    and then we were talking about some of the people who kept in touch with us post-grad and the way they did. We were both pretty artistic and musical in our own rights back then. But since we graduated things went kinda oddly. In his case, he got invited to some parties of people he never hung out with (hilariously to me, it was the stereotypically ‘popular’ crowd) only to find out once there that he was to either be the comic relief, or someone would find a guitar and insist he play. For me, girls I never hung out with would follow me for advice and stuff. Once, a girl that I’d met for coffee twice and made a mix cd for (she was feeling super down and making mix CDs is just what I do to cope so) tagged me in a photo - she had made a pile of copies of that CD for her friends (ok, fine, glad you like it that much) and written boldly on each “THE MEREDITH PARK PLAYLIST” (uh ok why) and on some even written excerpts of the note id written to her to go with it (hey now)
    She literally used my name as a brand.

    basically my friend and I were puzzling over the fact that we had been branded as products or lifestyles by people we thought had their shit together. Have you ever done that to anyone or has anyone done that to you? what do you even do with that?


  15. "Unless you’re Christopher Hitchens, who can write about dying while you’re dying, I think most writers need some distance from their calamities. I suppose I was being a quiet American on that cruise ship—amid three thousand passengers—and in that contemplative space the spectre of my mother’s death transformed itself into a story."
    — Saïd Sayrafiezadeh discusses his short story in this week’s issue: http://nyr.kr/1trtYKP (via newyorker)

    (Source: newyorker.com, via newyorker)