leighpeigh asked: When you imagine yourself as a little old lady, who do you see? How has she spent her time? Where has she been?
Everyone thinks I’m kidding about this, and I let them because I know I sound crazy, but Jellyfish Apocalypse: it’s happening and I’m not gonna lie, I am weak and will probably not survive the ensuing chaos into little old ladyhood.
But assuming I make it, I have a veritable mini-universe of hilarious women in my life, any of whom I’d be happy to have my little old lady self shooting the shit with in our sunset years, drinking cocktails and telling each other stories of our slutty younger days, the fools we made of ourselves, the books we read, the great things we did (maybe we figured out the jellyfish situation just in time!). Hopefully she’s been everywhere. I want to go everywhere. I want everyone to love me, want to be that world traveler that leaves an impression on everybody she meets, has fleeting but meaningful connections with other travelers passing through at the same time. I want some passionate flings and I want some big love affairs, so that I have something to look back on, I want to laugh always and have that little old lady remember a life that seems somehow in retrospect to have been one long sweaty exuberant dance.
irandeckard asked: hullooo Lillian -- this is a poor attempt at distracting you from middle class white dudes by taking a moment to properly introduce myself, which I think is a sign that I'm getting really old, like, I feel the need to introduce myself formally, even on a website that's mostly just devoted to butts and tv? I digress. you are lovely and I enjoy reading about the minute details of your life (is that creepy? idk) and my name is MJ or Melissa, whichever you prefer, hiii <3
Hiiiii ohmygosh I have such an internet crush on you! I like both of those, but prefer MJ you are delightful and I am immensely flattered.
elesheva asked: which one direction song would you say you find yourself needing to listen to most often?
THREE answers to this question.
She’s Not Afraid in that I was obsessed with it my last couple months in New York, in this way that certain pop songs for certain periods of time will have melodies so much on my brain wavelength that it’s addictive and I can’t stop listening to them over and over again, like drinking, like eating chocolate, compulsive, never enough, listen until they make me dizzy drunk, so I listened to that while soaring and stomping and sprinting down Houston St. at night. I’ve literally never heard anyone else mention this song ever, sometimes I wonder if it really exists.
Through the Dark in that it got me through this terrible first winter in Portland and it’s honestly nothing to do with the lyrics about “feeling your way through the dark” it’s something desperately driving in the Mumford-and-Sons-y guitar and kickdrum, an inertial kind of force that kept me trudging in the damp December, that album came out my first week back in town and a couple weeks later I somehow latched onto that song and didn’t let go.
And C’mon C’mon in that when I’m on a run and feeling so happy to be moving on these two legs, when that first “Yeeeaaahhh I been watchin’ you all night,” comes on, it carries me five times faster like I’m surfing on a wave of pure adrenaline and joy and pop perfection.
— White dudes everywhere talking down to you.
Some good words from my mom on protecting yourself: “Don’t hurt any feelings that you don’t have to. But if somebody’s feelings HAVE to be hurt, better theirs than yours.”
Some good words from my sister on cameltoe: “I mean, whatever, I don’t really worry about it. Like, congratulations, I have a vagina, you got me.”
Also, memo from the land of high self-confidence,
low improving self-esteem: I always thought I couldn’t wear eye shadow because I “didn’t know how” but it turns out you can just kind of smear that shit all over your eyes until it looks like something you’re into and that’s fine? You can just do that? There’s no Right Way except maybe aim for lighter on the inner part of your eye, darker on the outer if you wanna make your eyes look bigger, if you’re goin’ for that big-eyed look? But yeah, you can just rub that nonsense all the fuck over your eyelids and blend it a little bit and look at some pictures of Debbie Harry if you feel like you’re wearing too much makeup and remember that she’d be like, “Are you kidding? What is this bold eye neutral face bullshit. Put more makeup on! Bold eye bold lip bold cheek bold face bold life wheeeeennn I met you in the restaurant, you could tell I was no debutaaaante you asked me what’s my pleeeeeasure, a movie or a measure, I have a cup of tea and tell you of my dreeeeaaaaamin’”
Sometimes coming back here has seemed like a cul-de-sac, and sometimes I stop at Whole Foods on my way home from a run and the cashier says, “You’re the older sister, right?” and I laugh and say, “Yes, if you’re talking about my family,” and she says, “I saw your sister in a bar the other night—is she old enough to—” and I roll my eyes and say, “No,” and she says, “I didn’t think so. Anyhow she said ‘hi,’ kissed me on the cheek,” and I say, “That sounds like Maggie,” and I smile the whole way home.
We’ve been going to that Whole Foods since we moved into this neighborhood when I was 13 and my youngest brother was 7. Since before it was a Whole Foods. It was a local chain called Nature’s before Whole Foods bought it, and before Nature’s bought it it was called something else that I don’t remember, and that’s how long we’ve been going there. Too expensive, but always right around the corner when we were too tired to go any further.
On the bus to work this morning I wanted to read more of my book before I talk to Eleanor on the phone this week, but I couldn’t keep my eyes open, lolled against the window. My bra strap was twisted uncomfortably and I didn’t fix it all day. I had to go in the middle of the day to get my drug test. The last time I smoked pot was a year ago, standing on the sidewalk at the corner of West Broadway and Spring with my boss and two coworkers. Afterwards we ate an enormous, expensive, gluttonous two-hour meal washed down with the bottles of Rioja my boss kept ordering—but that the rest of us paid for—and I went home and threw it all up in the shower. Disgusted but relieved. Or maybe it was the other time, after a comedy show, with some guys I should have walked away from, when I was oafish and embarrassing, the only time I’ve ever been truly stoned, somehow made my way home despite falling asleep on the dirty ground of both the 2nd Ave Subway station and then the Jay St.-Metrotech station. Whichever time was the last time, they were both so unpleasant that I haven’t smoked it since or had even the faintest urge to.
I haven’t been able to cry lately, until on the bus home today in the sun, for no reason, when I suddenly had to blink back tears. You can’t cry on buses here, like you can on the Subway. People here look at you curiously, ask questions, offer kindness. Coming back to it from the East Coast, the intrusion seems crude, like some broken covenant of public privacy. Just let me cry quietly in front of you and look discreetly the other way, I want to say.
Ariel and Emma keep trying to get me to do things with them, that’s what keeps making me cry and I honestly can’t figure out why. Biking the 20 miles out to Sauvie Island, rockclimbing. I don’t want to do these things, but I don’t know why them trying to include me, trying to convince me, makes me cry. I’m not jealous of either of them! I don’t like biking, or heights, but I’m ok with not liking those things! I don’t feel left out! I see both of them at other times. I like them together and separately. We’re all friends. I’m usually so good at naming my feelings, if nothing else, and this feeling I cannot cognominate.
Well anyhow, anyhow, I am so very happy. Making a community where people recognize me by my resemblance to my sisters and my friends plan activities together and I daydream out the window of the bus. I’ve been reading very good things lately! I finished The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao and I’m so glad I never read it before, so that I got to read it now. It was magnificent. I’m reading The Empathy Exams, which are rigorously thoughtful and intense and mildly unsettling. Americanah finally came out in paperback and I bought it on Saturday and that’s next on the list.
Emma likes to be read to, and I read things out loud to her off my phone, from the passenger seat of her car or across the table outside a coffeeshop, advice columns and things I’ve written and quotations I liked.
Caroline and I plan what we’ll do when I come to visit, all the old things we used to do, and all the things we never had the chance to, all the discoveries she’s made since I left. There’s no way we could do all of them in however many days I can get off, but there was never any way for us to do all of them, not if both of us stayed in Brooklyn for three lifetimes. That’s the beauty and the sadness. The choice.
Can’t sleep right now because I’m desperately happy over v wholesome things and just thinking that feels like a jinx so I toss and turn wondering what bad thing’s going to happen. What’s the matter with me gotta stop thinking of my life as a narrative gotta stop watching Mad Men gotta start wearing sunscreen on my torso gotta live in the moment gotta eat less sugar gotta have some really fun sex.
Gonna get a tax refund, have a bed frame, gonna go for a sunny evening run in just a sportsbra and barely get catcalled at all.
Clap along if you feel like a room without a roof.
People are always getting huffy with me taking pictures—whatever I think you’re all beautiful and glowing and I feel immensely lucky to be here with you and I want to capture you and this golden moment for posterity and occasionally share it with the world so fucking sue me—but also always texting me the next day, “Oh can you send me that picture,” “Hey, do you have any pictures of me,” “I really like that picture,” like, I will happily provide your profile pictures for social media and online dating, but then don’t grouch to me about my tendency to photograph you.
Every day I seek out ways to grow and change, to broaden my perspective on the world, to better understand the future, to become more interesting and complex, to be a better version of the person I was yesterday, and I need to be with someone who does the same. I want to marry someone I can build something with, bounce ideas off of, talk to for hours and still not want to sleep for fear of missing out on something going on inside of his head. I love to be alone more than almost anything else and I want to find the one person I could be with all the time and feel equally at peace. I want someone whose brain moves faster than mine and in a million different directions so that I have to get smarter just to fucking keep up. I want someone who plans for the future — not just his own future but for what the world will look like 5, 10, 20 years out. Someone who ravenously devours information, who quietly analyzes everything he takes in but in a way where I can see the wheels turning in his eyes.
And if I don’t meet this person, my backup plan is that I will become her. My backup plan is that I will spend my life with ME, and I will only let in a person who can compete with that scenario."
This made me tear up with relief because it described what I’ve been struggling to put into words for months, every time someone asks me about my dating sitch.
Anonymous asked: what happened to eleanor's tumblr? i started reading both your blogs when you were still roommates in nyc and now i think hers has disappeared! i loved her writing (yours too!)
Oh, Anonymous, now I’m going to need a few moments of silence to mourn my life living with Eleanor. When her roommate announced he was leaving next month, I considered dropping everything here so I could go back and pick right back up as if I’d never left. I’m still considering it when her next roommate leaves. For the month that I slept in her bed, we also discovered that we’re perfectly sleep-compatible, and neither of us likes sleeping alone, so the dream is we both sleep in my old room and write in her room in some sort of young woman friendship writing feeling BedStuy utopia, chocolate in the fridge, coffee in the pot, Patsy Cline on Spotify, both of us tap tap tapping at our keyboards and occasionally stopping to share pictures of dogs, sunlight streaming in the back windows and a/c chugging away. Going for runs to Prospect Park at night and applying skin treatments before bed.
Anyhow, she has been sort of off and on social medias/blogging platforms, so I don’t know how public she wants that to be right now. I’ll leave it to her to either comment on here, or if you message me off anon I can pass it along to her? She is an AMAZING writer, isn’t she? It’s crazy.
i’m so tired,
i wish i was the moon tonight
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