Adam > Recent Status Updates

"doing gay shit in the arctic" might be my all-time favorite niche

"You look like you're cosplaying Sylvia Plath."
"Thank you."

NOW KISS

Only a woman would do such a thing. Because women know that we're just meat, they know it better than anyone.

He spares a thought to the animals, who are perhaps no longer animals, transformed by man through the millennia, selected, manipulated, crossbred, less living things than metabolic factories, edible laboratories, organic inventions used to feed the human species.

JUST LIKE A MAN

this is giving me flashbacks to the time i was acting in a sherlock holmes student film (i was watson, obviously) and the director kept being like "imagine your emotions are in a box" and I was like "okay what do you mean" "your emotions - put them in a box" "um" "EMOTIONS BOX" and it kept going like that for an eternity, we did a thousand takes of one simple shot, it never ended, i'm still trapped there i fear

Become so drunk on life and love that it blinds you to the hate threatening to drown you. Chew on grief for breakfast, devour aches for lunch, inhale life’s acid, let it burn the costume he has forced upon you.

'Israeli cows like to graze on Lebanese territory,' explains Bronco Gil.

WHAT! IS! HAPPENING!!!!!!!

i'm sure she would be so pissed to hear this, but gretchen felker-martin should just write dark romance or erotica

There is no room of one's own when men think our bodies belong to them.

My papi always said I had a strange charm. Like Anne Boleyn, who some historians suggest was attractive despite being ugly.

I find being an American pretty darn embarrassing, especially now we're the ones on the wrong side of a global war.

She presses her lips together, calls me by my name for the first time. "Asher? My feet hurt."
I say, "Yes."
And we both begin to cry.

Marta said that at times like this--only at times like this--you need a man in the house, and María, who was standing on a chair with her skirts pulled up around her waist, started to laugh like a person possessed, and said no, that she preferred cockroaches, all the cockroaches in the world, over a man in the house.

some of the most unlikely people in the world turn out to be homosexual; it's not at all that unusual

We like our lives and our possessions to run smoothly. Chaos, violence, disorder, mindlessness all upset us. They do not frighten us, precisely, because we are aware of them. We watch the news, we are active in our own brand of rather liberal politics. We know we have built a shell for ourselves, but we have worked hard for the means to do it; we have chosen it. Surely we have the right to do that.

this is self insert Dead Poet's Society/The Secret History fanfic and you CANNOT convince me otherwise

the author appears to be allergic to world building or giving the reader even a CRUMB of a description about the overall physical environment

for a "gothic", there's a startling absence of atmosphere...

OH MY GOD THE NARRATOR OF THE AUDIO PLAYS THE MC IN THE BARBARIAN

I miss Gus more than I've ever missed anyone. Strange, that.... Is this what it's like to have a brother? Or a best friend? It's confusing. I don't quite know what I mean.



my darling, there's a word for what you're feeling and it's called ~yearning~

The wounded human is a wounded alien lifeform.

GIRL IT HAS TAKEN YOU THIS LONG TO SIDE WITH THE PEASANTS?! YOU SHOULD BE EATEN

the structure of this story is infuriating; girl runs around with boy she hates (and constantly has to remind the reader why she's still with him, presumably to set up a ham-fisted scene later on where the two are conveniently together), comes upon a scene of violence, is shocked, runs around with boy she hates~

comment about how her dress doesn't have pockets - boooooo

girl you're wearing a slip dress, what good would a pocket be with that material? get real

LADY DANGER IS FAMOUSLY AN ORANGE RED, IT IS NOT BLUE-TONED ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME DO YOU UNDERSTAND COLOR THEORY - YOU WERE THINKING OF RUBY WOO, WEREN'T YOU MONA, DON'T LIE TO ME

And yet they had no name for their emotional attachment. It wasn't love. Not calling it love saved them from resentment. And without resentment, they were free. Free today, free tomorrow. Free next year. Until the day they died.

The idea that walking away is childish and unproductive is predicated on the inability to imagine anything but a walking away from, never a walking away toward—never that there might exist another destination. The walking away is not nihilism, it’s not cynicism, it’s not doing nothing—it’s a form of engagement more honest, more soul-affirming, than anything the system was ever prepared to offer.