ain’t no party like a Gatsby party because a Gatsby party don’t stop until at least two people are dead and everyone is disillusioned with the jazz age as a whole
bell hooks, all about love: new visions (via ellesugars)
the ceo of abercrombie and fitch has a lot of nerve saying that ugly people shouldn’t wear his clothes when he looks like an albino orc from the lord of the rings
I’m never going to stop reblogging these.
My mom died on April 20th, 1997. Mother’s Day was less than a month later. My dad took me putt putt golfing to take my mind off it. When we purchased our tickets the guy at the window cheerfully asked, “Where’s mom?” His expression changed to dismay when I burst into tears.
Needless to say, I hate Mother’s Day.
Sometimes, I try to ignore it, pretend it’s any other day, and I get by ok. Not great, but ok.
Sometimes, I feel sad, but I give gifts to my grandma and my aunt, remind myself to be thankful for women who have cared about me and cared for me all of my life.
Then there are other times where I only want to hide under a rock. Mother’s Day is never a good day for Facebook, or church, or going out. It’s just a goddamn shitty holiday when mommy is lying under a tombstone or in an urn somewhere, and you’re left to think for the thousandth time what your life has been without her love and advice and comfort in it.
I imagine it is also a very hard day for women who have chosen not to have children, or have lost children, or struggle with infertility, or simply don’t have a good relationship with their mom. Of course, it’s possible not everyone is as sensitive as I am.
So I hate Mother’s Day, but I love Anne Lamott. Leave it to her to write something about this that speaks to me.