instead of spending so much time assuring other people that “asexuals can have sex to please their partner” why don’t we spend time assuring asexuals that they are under no obligation to have sex with their partners to please them, and that if their partner cant respect their sexuality, they don’t deserve them.
If you want to write, if you want to create, you must be the most sublime fool that God ever turned out and sent rambling. You must write every single day of your life. You must read dreadful dumb books and glorious books, and let them wrestle in beautiful fights inside your head, vulgar one moment, brilliant the next. You must lurk in libraries and climb the stacks like ladders to sniff books like perfumes and wear books like hats upon your crazy heads. I wish you a wrestling match with your Creative Muse that will last a lifetime. I wish craziness and foolishness and madness upon you. May you live with hysteria, and out of it make fine stories - science fiction or otherwise. Which finally means, may you be in love every day for the next 20,000 days. And out of that love, remake a world.
Ray Bradbury (via writersresort)
this is how i feel every day
All I want right now is some BK and a pool and a comfy ass bed under the ac.
I love how girls are so chill like yea touch my boobs wanna snuggle heck yes but two guys will bump into eachother and be like woA NO HOMO MAN.
Please, please, please — it was the refrain of Jehan’s childhood, before his dad died, sung again and again at his parrain: “please can we?” “please one more story” and, like clockwork whenever Tiefer had to go, “please stay.”
He remembers his dad used to joke that he loved Tiefer more than him (he also remembers that, with all the casual cruelty of childish thoughtlessness, he had said that he did.)
He can’t recall exactly when please stay turned into please leave, please don’t, please stop, or if it ever even truly did, because even now, after thirty years should have exorcised all the ghosts from his tired bones, he doesn’t pull away, even as he swears he feels arms around him and dead breath against his ear. The bottle of pills that should have made it all okay — should have made him say “please go away” — remain unopened as he leans back into the touch that’s only as real as he allows it (and God, does he allow it.) “Please stay, parrain,” Jehan said to a room that should have been empty and still.
The grip tightened, pleased, and a voice like a death rattle hummed in his ear old hymns that meant nothing to either of them anymore.