k. rowan > Recent Status Updates

“Weirding” is not a verb and should not be used by anyone who wants to go into publishing.

Lmaooo 😭

There he is, staring at me and finding me lacking.
I pretend to read the article, all the time meeting his steady gaze, searching the photo for some clue as to why he’s not the man for me. And suddenly it’s blindingly obvious. He’s too gloriously good-looking. We are poles apart, from two very different worlds. This is what he meant, and it makes his rejection easier to accept..almost.
I can live with this.

“There was that guy in my chemistry class who liked me, but no one has ever sparked my interest. I should be kinder to the likes of Paul and José. I’m sure neither of them has been found sobbing alone in dark places.
Perhaps I just need a good cry.
Stop! Stop now! my subconscious is screaming at me. Get in the car, go home, do your studying. Forget about him. Now! Stop all this self-pitying, wallowing crap.”

“Why am I crying? I sink to the ground, angry at myself for this senseless reaction. [I let] the irrational tears fall unrestrained. I am crying over the loss of something I never had. How ridiculous. Mourning something that never was.”

“That old woman in black who sat down next to me on my bench, on my rack of joy (a nymphet was groping under me for a lost marble), and asked if I had stomachache, the insolent hag. Ah, leave me alone in my pubescent park, in my mossy garden. Let them play around me forever. Never grow up.”

😨

“My little cup brims with tiddles.”
Oh my god?

I shall now analyze this sentence via analytical prose. The (now repeated) mention of “tiddle cup” serves in reference to the traditional parlour game, ‘tiddlywinks.’ We, humble members of the jury, are therefore made privy to Humberts’ malicious, malevolent desires throughout the course of Humberts’ sadistic, albeit breathtaking, wordplay.

“Humbert was perfectly capable of intercourse with Eve, but it was Lilith he longed for.”

“Now I wish to introduce the following idea. Between the age limits of nine and fourteen there occur maidens who, to certain bewitched travelers, twice or many times older than they, reveal their true nature which is not human, but nymphic (that is, demoniac); and these chosen creatures I propose to designate as “nymphets.”

What the fuck

A paper of mine entitled “The Proustian theme in a letter from Keats to Benjamin Bailey” was chuckled over by the six or seven scholars who read it.

Son 😭✌️

“But that mimosa grove—the haze of stars, the tingle, the flame, the honeydew, and the ache remained with me, and that little girl with her seaside limbs and ardent tongue haunted me ever since—until at last, twenty-four years later, I broke her spell by incarnating her in another.”

“It is as if a painter said: look, here I’m going to show you not the painting of a landscape, but the painting of different ways of painting a certain landscape, and I trust their harmonious fusion will disclose the landscape as I intend you to see it.”

I’ve developed a disease that forces me to apologize for everything. I can’t stop. It’s what I do. I’m always apologizing. For who I am and what I never meant to be and for this body I was born into, this DNA I never asked for, this person I can’t unbecome. 17 years I’ve spent trying to be different. Every single day. Trying to be someone else for someone else.
- Page 85

“I submerge my head for a long while, holding my breath as I exhale through my nose. I feel the small bubbles rise to the surface. The warm water makes me feel weightless. It carries my burdens for me, understanding that I need a moment to relieve my shoulders of this weight. To close my eyes and relax.”
- Page 82/133

this is getting a little too relatable 😭