I watched the video on mute, with Kill Bill on tv. I couldn’t figure out why you wanted me to watch such a violent video about sharks feeding. I muted the tv and turned the volume on on the computer. MUCH different impression. So, what I got out of that is you want me to feel you to sharks while playing calming music?

I still do not condone you swimming with sharks, wrestling gators, taming lions, or charming anacondas.  sorry

You still love me though, and you would still love me if I did those things. We’ve moved past the wrestling gators thing though. I promised. Sharks, however, are still a go.

bibliotheque:

piscesinpurple:

He was born sometime in August. The reason we celebrate Christmas when we do is a couple of thousand years ago, when the early church wanted to be palatable to the pagan masses, they made their big holiday coincide with the winter solstice.

And this is why my poor December 28th birthday gets shortchanged every year. Bitch.

Dec 26 B-day here.  It’s always sucked.

Both my sister and my dad have Dec 26th birthdays and my sister hates it. I’m sure at one point my dad hated it also.

jadedinlove:

joshisinfinite:

Lump by The Presidents of The United States of America

So, I was definitely wrong about when this came out, mostly because I was really nervous and I wasn’t thinking all too clearly at all.

Shortly after Emily picked me up from the airport, this song came on and we couldn’t think of when this song was released. For the record, it was 1995. That would mean I was in 5th grade, possibly 6th?

sooo what you are saying is, i was right?

Yes, I have no problem admitting you were right. It is impossible for me to know everything.

!!SHARK WHISPERER:CONSERVATIONISTS GET UP CLOSE AND PERSONAL WITH TIGER SHARKS!! (via SHARKSANDCREATURES)

Dear Emily,

See?

— Josh

Once when I was a little boy I received as a gift a toy cement mixer. It was made of wood except for its wheels—axles—which, as I remember, were thin metal rods. I’m ninety per cent sure it was a Christmas gift. I liked it the same way a boy that age likes toy dump trucks, ambulances, tractor-trailers, and whatnot. There are little boys who like trains and little boys who like vehicles—I liked the latter.

It was (“it” meaning the cement mixer) the same overlarge miniature as many other toy vehicles—about the size of a breadbox. It weighed three or four pounds. It was a simple toy—no batteries. It had a colored rope, with a yellow handle, and you held the handle and walked pulling the cement mixer behind you—rather like a wagon, although it was nowhere near the size of a wagon. For Christmas, I’m positive it was. It was when I was the age where you can, as they say, “hear voices” without worrying that something is wrong with you. I “heard voices” all the time as a small child. I was either five or six, I believe. (I’m not very good with numbers.)

I liked the cement mixer and played with it as much as or more than I played with the other toy vehicles I owned. At some point, several weeks or months after Christmas, however, my biological parents led me to believe that it was a magic and/or highly unusual cement mixer. Probably my mother told me this in a moment of adult boredom or whimsy, and then my father came home from work and joined in, also in a whimsical way. The magic—which my mother likely reported to me from her vantage on our living room’s sofa, while watching me pull the cement mixer around the room by its rope, idly asking me if I was aware that it had magical properties, no doubt making sport of me in the bored half-cruel way that adults sometimes do with small children, playfully telling them things that they pass off to themselves as “tall tales” or “childlike inventions,” unaware of the impact those tales may have (since magic is a serious reality for small children), though, conversely, if my parents believed that the cement mixer’s magic was real, I do not understand why they waited weeks or months before telling me of it. They were a delightful but often impenetrable puzzle to me; I no more knew their minds and motives than a pencil knows what it is being used for. Now I have lost the thread. The “magic” was that, unbeknown to me, as I happily pulled the cement mixer behind me, the mixer’s main cylinder or drum—the thing that, in a real cement mixer, mixes the cement; I do not know the actual word for it—rotated, went around and around on its horizontal axis, just as the drum on a real cement mixer does. It did this, my mother said, only when the mixer was being pulled by me and only, she stressed, when I wasn’t looking. She insisted on this part, and my father later backed her up: the magic was not just that the drum of a solid wood object without batteries rotated but that it did so only when unobserved, stopping whenever observed. If, while pulling, I turned to look, my parents sombrely maintained, the drum magically ceased its rotation. How was this? I never, even for a moment, doubted what they’d told me. This is why it is that adults and even parents can, unwittingly, be cruel: they cannot imagine doubt’s complete absence. They have forgotten.

Why Can’t I Be You? by The Cure

Lay Me Down by The Frames

I will write you letters
That explain the way I’m thinking now
I will return to you
What I have taken long before
I will return again
When it gets dark and day is done

Of Angels and Angles by The Decemberists

There’s a tough word on your crossword
There’s a bed bug nipping a finger
There’s a swallow, there’s a calm
Here’s a hand to lay on your open palm today

All We Want, Baby, Is Everything by Handsome Furs

Everyday by Vetiver

I was South…fml

Mimizan by Beirut

So Far Around The Bend by The National

Teenager In Love by The Pains of Being Pure At Heart

Alive by VHS or Beta

Back In Your Head by Tegan & Sara

Gila by Beach House

Motorcycle Drive-By by Third Eye Blind