So I’m cleaning out my room at home and ending up with hugeeee piles of stuff that I want to get rid of. None of it is half bad, I just don’t need it. It’s all a bunch of clothes and books and shoes and other knick knacks. I would LOVE to sell it and make some college dollas, but I feel like yard sales aren’t super successful here, especially with selling clothes. Do y’all have any ideas on how to sell bags and bags of pretty decent clothes?
All food posts going this-a-way from now on
i just drove home through the country, barefoot with the windows down and the smell of honeysuckle and barbecue wafting in, while the sun set in front of me. north carolina, sometimes you are pretty swell. i missed you.
so i come home to north carolina to find that my mom has killed and skinned a copperhead while i was gone. she got bored i guess.
How am I not myself?: [content note: rape culture]
For those who think I rant about the patriarchy and misogyny too much
From: Julia Maddera, Georgetown University ‘13.
To the first man, who I met by the Eiffel Tower my second week in Paris, when I didn’t know better. Who took me out four times, who waved little red flags that I tried to…
To every man in Florence who thinks it’s okay to physically and obviously stop, turn around, and check out my friends and I as we walk down the sidewalk every day. (To everyone else on the street who observes this and still decides to walk on like they don’t notice.) To the merchant in front of our door who I’m forced to walk past in order to leave the house, who asks me for an “American sex friend” every single day. To the groups of guys we pass on the street who shout things in English like “oooooh American girls, best in the world. Boobs! Butt! Ass!” Thanks, everyone, for making me afraid to go out in shorts or skirts, even with tights. I don’t feel safe running outside here. Thanks.
To the men at club I went to once who physically grabbed my crotch, legs, and butt as I walked through a crowd.
To my friends who tell me to calm down when I complain about any misogyny I face abroad and tell me to ignore it, that there are just cultural differences. It makes no difference whether I am American or Italian, I don’t deserve this. To my own mother who surprised me once by reminding me to “consider what I’m wearing” when I walk around here. Thanks, but I don’t think jeans, duck boots, and a huge sweater should garner so much attention. In fact, nothing I wear deserves this kind of attention.
(Source: thelittlekneesofbees, via good-universe)
i just made art. like successfully made art. i feel so accomplished. i thought i’d lost it.
do you want to know a secret?
cause i know one. and it is sooooo good to hear it.
i think i’m going to make a food blog? because food is really the best thing ever and deserves to be treated like it and not tossed in the same pan (HA) as posts about cats and flowers and stevie nicks (bless).
keep yours eyes PEELED
my feet are longing for red dirt, fresh grass, and fields of spiky hay. i want cattails and clover flowers stuck between my toes. i want to swim in a pond in the woods and get bits of lily pads and pond scum stuck to my bathing suit. i want to stuff my mouth with blueberries while picking for the farmer’s market. i want cook outs and tube tops and soda shops. i want my mom’s honeysuckle sorbet. i’m ready to go home.
i’m pretty sure if you go early vote, you can register and vote at the same time.
Thanks! And I would, but as far as I can tell that’s not possible from abroad :( (I’m in Italy till mid-May)
are you doing absentee voting? also when will you be back?
I feel horrendously bad about saying this, but I didn’t register to vote in time for this election, or else I TOTALLY would have absentee voted the shit out of it. I’m still trying to spread the good word from afar. I’ve learned my lesson, though.
I’m coming back on May 12! Are you going to be in town this summer?
One time I went to a blues show at this club in Mississippi. It was all dark and red inside, and smokey, and soulful. It was so crowded we had to share the bar stools. We drank Bud Lights and smiled at big ladies covered in pearls and skin-tight dresses who danced sensually with their fedora-topped husbands. No one cared if we weren’t 21. When the show wound down we had to find a way to wind ourselves down in the middle of the night in Clarksdale before we drove home, and if we had to, we said, we’d sleep in the car next to the graveyard. We wandered around headstones in the dark, listening to Rosie moan about wanting something to smoke. Two guys appeared in the light of a streetlamp on the other side of the graveyard fence. They stuck out with their Spanish accents. Rosie bummed a hand-rolled smoke off the bearded one while Mike chatted with the other about Malaga and I got devoured by mosquitoes. We gave the guys a ride to their hotel and followed them in to help them finish a bottle of gin left over from Vegas.
After a bunch of lazin around in their hotel room talking about beards and the Spanish language, we tried to finish the night off with some grilled cheese breakfast, but (can you believe it?) even Wal*Mart was closed. It took an hour to convince MacDonald’s, Burger King, or Wendy’s to open up, true to their 24-hr service signs. Around 4am we lucked out on some Micky D’s pancakes and drove off into the fields in search of a clear starry sky. Too bad the sun was already on its way up.
Eeee I have so many friend crushes on you all it’s embarrassing!
