Chalkboard rule 29: when you’re wrong, admit it. Divorce yourself from the part of you that thought that way.

Chalkboard rule 29: when you’re wrong, admit it. Divorce yourself from the part of you that thought that way.

  

another one

this is actually a poem

shh, don’t tell anyone

  

hey hey more demolition

Anonymous said: drunk words are sober thoughts

Might wanna see a neurologist if your sober thoughts are slurred.
Get well soon <3

Anonymous said: U r so talented and cool

And you’re drunk!  But I appreciate it.

Chalkboard rule 28:  either speak or forfeit what comes next.  Taken from Microserfs.

Chalkboard rule 28:  either speak or forfeit what comes next.  Taken from Microserfs.

Chalkboard rule 27:Identity is:as simple as being whatever you propose to beandas difficult as being what you propose to be;propose cautiously.
Wildean.

Chalkboard rule 27:
Identity is:
as simple as being whatever you propose to be
and
as difficult as being what you propose to be;
propose cautiously.

Wildean.

Late night cooking @ Chateau de Boykin:  Leek &amp; Potato soup.

Late night cooking @ Chateau de Boykin: Leek & Potato soup.

  

I might not stand by it in a year, but here, this exists now.

reason: 

learning how to make songs on the fly by hitting record and seeing what comes out

trying desperately to be darnielle-y or whatever

  

learning how to make songs on the fly by hitting record and seeing what comes out

trying desperately to be darnielle-y or whatever

The New Naturalization Process

The 21st Century American Naturalization Process

You struggle into consciousness and find yourself upon a vast, dark field. At the receding edges, the shade from something vast is clearly solid, and extends upwards. As you turn from left to right, scanning your surroundings, one floodlight, higher above you than the heavens, clicks on with the efficiency that only freedom can bring. You see that sand the color of freeze-dried scarlet lies before you as you finish looking around in a circle. It’s a diamond with a grassy patch in the middle; your fevered, reverent studies of American culture by the light of the traditional lamp (invented by Ben Franklin) step to the forefront of your baffled mind, and you realize that this is a baseball field. You spin around, but do not open your mouth to cry out, because your heart is reassured by thousands of mouths murmuring “‘Murica” in time, your crowd sitting on the edges of their stadium seats, eyes locked upon the newest initiate. The rest of the floodlights click on, proceeding in a circle, until all is illuminated in the light glinting off our fair president’s noble forehead, on a platform extending from a skybox. The cheers of Murica fly up to our founding fathers, intensifying until ruddy-cheeked 8 year olds and Indian men in their fifties are shouting, screaming at the same pitch, timbres integrating in the giant melting pot that is this stadium, until a lone voice cries out: yours, saying the fabled words, “FUCK YEAH!”

Our fair president smiles, descends from the seat responsible oversight; legs a dignified blur, the stairs between you and the elected official reduce in number until there, beckoning you to home plate with a bat in hand, they stand. The chorus of onlooking brothers and sisters hang in the airs ‘round you, silent, expectant. You march proud, your bosom upthrust and feet raising plumes of red dust, until you’re close enough to adjust the POTUS tie; but instead, you grasp the handle of the slugger as tradition demands. The president produces a baseball from a pocket, holds it up, and says for all to hear, “Hit one for you forebearers, the spent lives of great individuals, and most of all, for your soon-to-be compatriots!”

President takes the mound. You flex tour bicep, slide your feet into batting position, crouch. The pitch: a fastball that seems to burn blue in the light of your eyes, squinted against the adversity of the present, open to the future and past in equal measure. All the world hears the crack, and the ball soars on the wings of triumph, almost like a guided missile, or an eagle, fiercely piercing through atmosphere, unequaled by all other birds of prey, breaking barrier after barrier: sound, assorted MACHs’, scientific expectations, possibility. It smashes through the floodlight directly before you, gloriously exploding, continuing on, perhaps to the Moon, or Mars, or whatever lies beyond our view, and the president slaps hand to thigh and says: My fellow American, welcome to the Union!

and the crowd goes wild

Created with Sticky Notes HD for Windows Phone

Chalkboard rule 26:  the person whom is unwilling to study is either a coward or a fool.  From personal experience.

Chalkboard rule 26: the person whom is unwilling to study is either a coward or a fool. From personal experience.

i’ve got a lot of things i want to sell, but
not here, babe— tortuuurrreeeee…
Chalkboard rule 25: Don&#8217;t wait until you&#8217;re leaving to love a place.

Chalkboard rule 25: Don’t wait until you’re leaving to love a place.

Anonymous said: i know you're cool because of your blog

hmm

I don’t trust you, anon

my blog is at least a little disingenuous