a girl’s feet will tangle yours under sheets you just bought for a night like this. the price tag is still glued to the plastic wrapping stuffed underneath the bed. her feet are frigid and feel like frostbite against your legs when you fall asleep, but they’re like mittens roasted over a fire when the sun blinks through the curtains.
a girl’s legs are taut and thick. they’re flexible and enclose you in a straightjacket at 2 am when they knot around your waist and pull you just a little closer. if she’s still sleeping, it’s even better.
her thighs will make you forget about your calculus homework and your french exam. they will make you forget about your father’s affair or your best friend’s disorders. they will make you forget your name and they will make you forget who you are without them. hold them as tight as you can. i promise, she loves it.
when you were in fourth grade, they taught you stop, drop, and roll at the sign of a fire. when you’re in her bedroom on the second floor, her quivering hips will trick-start a similar fire in your teeth, and you’re going to want to listen to your fourth grade teacher, but don’t. if you stop, whatever it may be that you’re doing, she might kill you.
so in health class, they’re supposed to teach you that your hands will never fit somewhere like they will on a girl’s waist. it doesn’t matter if it’s wide and soft, or small and hard. your hands will adapt to her waist like the heart to your blood. they’ll feel as natural as fingers on an instrument.
sometimes you can see her ribs; sometimes you can’t. they flicker like an old grainy movie under her skin, and they feel like sharp magma in your palms. they’re structure — they protect her. hold her there if you want her to feel like this house isn’t caving in on herself.
her chest. promise her you’d never want anything more or anything less. if you don’t mean it, stop reading, and find someone else.
taste her collarbone. dip in the crevices and valleys and plant trees at the bottom. root down, cherish the nature, and never ever underestimate a girl’s collarbones. they’re a place to sleep when its -11 outside. write scripts on her collarbone. they are forever.
if you don’t know blueprints to her neck with your eyes closed from tracing it with your mouth, you’re doing it wrong. learn it. memorize it. you better know her pulse like counting with your dominant hand. kiss it like it’s her mouth. her neck will change over time, yes. but make sure you can change with it.
kiss her before she brushes her teeth. make fun of her morning breath. kiss her after, and make fun of the flavor of her toothpaste. kiss her when she’s angry and throwing the vase your mother bought her, and kiss her when she can’t stand and she bubbles over with tears like hot water. kiss her if she’s laughing and tell her it’s because she makes you happy. kiss her if she won’t stop talking because you want to taste her voice. kiss her when she isn’t talking because you miss it. kiss her in the shower and kiss her everywhere. if it’s raining, kiss her, and kiss her again when she calls you a cliche. kiss her in public because you want them all to know, and kiss her in private because you don’t need them to either. god, just kiss her on the mouth. nothing else matters. just fucking kiss her.
“When I was a kid, I knew some things. I knew Christmas was coming, but before that, Thanksgiving was coming, and that meant The Wizard of Oz was coming.”—Whoopi Goldberg, 86th Oscars (via legalist217)
Persephone as a dark and off-putting goddess who worries her mother by hanging out with satyrs and making weird stuff like pitcher plants and Venus flytraps. Hades being charmed and intimidated all at once.
isn’t it weird to think that if you were raised differently, if you lived somewhere else, if you said yes to that boy who asked you out in eighth grade, or if you played a different sport your life would be completely different? One little thing, one little choice can change your entire life.
“There Once Was a Pirate [Workshop Version]” by Lea Michele (Wendla, and 14 at the time), Gavin Creel (Melchior), and Cast
Song cut from the official Broadway production of Spring Awakening
Of all the songs that were cut in the making of this musical, I really wish they had kept this number, especially as it appears here. I especially love the opening monologue by the Masked Man, who was eventually cut from the entire show. This isn’t the greatest recording in the world and a version by Duncan Sheik boasts the best sound, but this is my favorite version of the song. (By the way, the song starts about 30 seconds in)
"Maybe its the best part really.
after you’ve parted.
when it’s all just you again, all the kisses all the wanting all the bliss, has turned to memory, memory so clear, so present it’s as if your love is still there. At least for that morning hour, till the memory recedes till that once warm presence is only a phantom, till your hearts just hunger again…”
Yeah cuddling naked is nice but there is something so sensual about laying together with your clothes on just to have them lift your shirt a little and grab your hip, then run their hand up and down your body to tease you. And by having just a small bit of your skin exposed, it leaves your body begging for more, and your nerves burn to have their hand pull your shirt up just a little more, grab your waist and caress your skin. Then the sweet and dangerous motion of their hand tugging your pants down slightly to give you false hope of satisfaction is dispelled by the sudden tug to pull your pants back up, and it gives you the feeling of dire need to be touched more. Clothes are great, actually.
“I don’t want to do rape stories on the show, because I don’t find them entertaining. I think that they’re exploitative. There are some rape elements intrinsic in the novels that I’m like how do we shift that story so it’s not about rape. I just feel very strongly as a feminist and somebody who likes women. I just can’t derive any sort of entertainment pleasure from it. So that’s why we steer away from those things.”— Bryan Fuller [x] (via mikkelsenpai)
“I once wrote in a love note - to a girl, which tells you how long ago it was - to a girl named Beth in eighth grade, “You’re the only thing in this whole world that doesn’t hurt.” And that found its way into Henry’s lyric because Henry is very much, I think, in the mind of a lovelorn eighth grader.”—Brian Yorkey (“On Stage with Next to Normal” at 92Y Tribeca)
Do you ever have a primal urge to touch someone you care about? Like tapping their shoulder to get their attention, or saying "excuse me" while putting your hand on their back, or kissing the top of their head when they lean onto your shoulder, or playing with their hair, or taking their hand and placing it on your cheek? It's not a second nature thing, but rather something I do before I even realize I'm doing it