made entirely of flaws

Things You Should Know About Life

     In the short time that I’ve spent on this planet, I’ve learned a few things.  These things are of the upmost importance and I suggest you read this if you plan on continuing existing, which I hope you do.  

1.)  You will never find anyone who can give you a clear, direct answer as to why we have Daylights Saving TIme.  

2.)   The level of suckiness of a movie is directly proportionate to how many times it’s trailer appears on Nick

3.)   TV shows about three or more quirky people living in an apartment together will always be good.  

4.)   There will come a time in your life when no one will make a big deal about your birthday, when you should stop expecting it.  This age is ten.  

5.)   Quoting yourself in conversation is always a good idea.  

6.)   At some point in your life everything as you know it will change, and the world will be flipped upside down.  This will always be some nerd in a lab’s fault.  Example: Pluto; may you RIP as a planet.  Now the world will forever be left wondering what your mother served nine of.  

7.)  Do not blame math teachers for being evil bitches.  You would be too if your job was to add things, much less force others to add things.

8.)  As surprising as it may seem, not everyone wants life to be a musical.  Avoid these assholes at all cost.

9.)  People from New York will always think they’re better than people not from New York.  These people will also be right.  

10.)  Every summer you will be given a dumb ass, incredibly long, busy work assignment.  Every summer you will work your ass off on it in order to impress your soon to be teacher.  Every September your new teacher will ask who did the assignment, nod, and then continue to not give a crap about how long you spent on your work.  

what to do if you’re a cold hearted pessimist who quite possibly may be falling for the most perfect boy ever.

    I HATE little people who say “I love you” to their boyfriends/girlfriends when they are basically toddlers and haven’t yet learned what SOHCAHTOA is.  I just think the word “love” is so overused that it’s basically just meaningless now.  Love is tossed around like a hacky sack in an elementary school playground.  We all know what happens when there’s a competitive game of hacky sack going on in a playground…it never ends well.  If I’m going to be honest, I will have to change the title of this a little.  I do believe in love, I believe in it with every fiber of my being.  It’s just that, I believe in it sooo much that I’m not sure how anything could possibly exist that is that strong.  And something as beautiful as love, could never happen to a entirely flawed person like myself.  

     But, I think I may have to become an open, uncloseted believer in the nearish future.  You see, my boyfriend of three months is perfect.  In every possible way.  Boyfriends should be like an ideal gas, hot and no pressure! And out of all elements, he’s helium all the way.  He’s brilliant, athletic, handsome, kind, caring, passionate, thoughtful, and basically what you dream about when you are nine years old after you saw Beauty and The Beast in theaters.  He likes me even though I dance 6 days a week, and have hello kitty bandaid covered fingers because of my blisters from playing the cello hard core.  Or when I become mushy and deep at 4am and basically act like a stoner version of Socrates.  He likes me when I’m sometimes witty, or during the majority of the time when I say stupid shit.  He slow dances with me during the Yule Ball scene while we’re watching Harry Potter in my basement.  So basically, I hit the jack pot.  The funny thing about it is, I wasn’t looking for a boyfriend.  I’ve never “looked” for a boyfriend or a relationship.  I don’t because, to be honest, I never really believed in high school relationships.  To me, a high school relationship was just an excuse to lose your virginity before entering the real world of college without being called a filthy slut.  Me being me, I did not agree with using an excuse to lose your virginity.  If you want to be a whore, be a whore, there’s no reason to come up with an excuse for it.  Also, girls with boyfriends suck.  Like, they stop hanging out with their friends, they don’t care about anything else, and every conversation begins with “My boyfriend and I…”.  How do I not become one of those girls who only talks to her friends about how annoying her boyfriend is, or how adorable her boyfriend is, or how confused by her boyfriend she is? I hate these mainstream high school relationships in which the couples don’t really do anything except text each other “heyy whatsup?”, hook up at high school parties, and then kiss each other good bye saying “I love you” without ever having a real conversation.  I go out of my way to make sure that my boyfriend and I don’t do this.  And he goes way out of his way to make me happy.  We know each other, and we are going to continue to learn more before we say “I love you.”  And when we do, it will mean something.  In fact, it will mean a lot. 

~yours till the ice skates

PS we’ve decided on a ukulele band name. We are Flava In Your Ear aka FIYE

Anonymous asked: i know how weird this may sound but i just came across your blog and like 1. i heart every single song on ure playlist cuz i love regina spektor and vampire weekend and florence and the machine and everyone else on it, 2. its good to see another nerd like me on this planet :) :)

ahh thank you! I owe a lot of the music to my dance teachers, who are just generally really good at life.  I find people who are good a life usually have great taste in music, don’t you?

Yes, us nerds are a dying breed.  But, really there are more than one might think.  Just making this blog has proven that to me.  So wear your nerdom proudly!  Shout it from the top of the star wars conventions, book signings, and shakespeare theaters!  Wear your season pass sticker to the Met like its a sash from Miss America…wait…don’t…you might lose brain cells.  So yeah, I appreciate you, please pass the blog on to your friends and such.  and continue being.  ( I attempted to add the word “bloody” into this numerous times, but it kept on seeming like something was covered in someone’s red bodily fluid instead of sounding cool and british-y… i wonder if bloody can be written or if it needs to be spoken…hmm)

I dislike when people do, or things are like, the following:

PET PEEVES In General (some may be mentioned in The State of Me)

1.) Don’t you fucking dare erase a white board and leave a little marker dash. Do not. 

2.) People who think they’re hard core harry potter fans because they’ve seen every movie. fucking pick up a book and read.

3.) Teachers who ruin reading for kids and consequently make kids believe that reading isn’t fun.  They say kids wouldn’t read at all if it weren’t for the boring, stuffy, just plain bad books that they analyze to death.  It’s my belief that kids would read a hell of a lot more and get enjoyment out of it if it weren’t for those teachers.  I hate teachers.  (except my chem teacher <3)

4.) Those who don’t understand sarcasm.  There should be put into a segregated state in which people do not use or understand sarcasm so that I don’t have to put up with their idiotic quizzical little looks or their misinterpretations.  I have a theory that the world would be a safer place if everyone were forced to take IQ tests and had to display their results as warnings to the population.

Facebook Pet Peeves (because it definitely deserves its own category)

1.) When people update their facebook statuses constantly and or make ones in which they complain about some aspect of their lives’.  (for example: forever alone, my lyfe sux, hate everyone.)

2.) When people ask you to like their pictures…HAVE SOME SELF RESPECT. YOU’RE BASICALLY IMMING PEOPLE SAYING “HEY IM PATHETIC.” YOU ARE WHORING YOUR PICTURE. YOU CAN’T EVEN MAKE MONEY BY WHORING A PICTURE ON FACEBOOK. I HAVE MORE RESPECT FOR STRIPPERS.  THEY MAKE GOOD MONEY.  

3.) I hate it when people share their love over facebook constantly.  because nothing is more romantic than letting you know that I love you … via this Facebook Status update

4.) Truth Is… if you’re the person’s good friend and you want to talk to them you shouldn’t need to like their status to get a conversation going. And if you’re not their good friend, asking for a truth is is just awkward.  

12minutestoheaven-deactivated20 asked: FUCK your poetry's amazing

bloody hell you just made my night! (sorry if the “bloody hell” was awkward..im not british…just simply trying it out)

Valentines Day and Things… parental guidance suggested just kidding haha fuck that

Sorry I haven’t been writing thaatt much and this vday post is way overdue, but I’ve been overcome with ill health and confounded to my bed for four whole days in which I could eat nothing but extra spicy Doritos and drink ginger ale (my cravings become quite peculiar when I’m sick)  

     So I’m sure what you’re expecting to read right now is a semi-witty, partly humorous, and completely sarcastic rant on how much I hate Valentines Day.  Well, sorry to disappoint, but either I think it’s too mainstream for me to bash Vday, or I genuinely don’t hate something for the first time ever.  You can decide.  But really, I think Valentines Day is a sweet holiday.  It’s not because I have my boyfriend to share it with this year.  Don’t get me wrong, I think it’s totally contrived, completely moronic, and yet another way for businesses to brainwash us into giving them money.  But, aren’t most, if not all, holidays that exact thing now?  I’m not even a fan of valentines day because men are supposed to do romantic things.  I’m no idiot.  Women think about the roses and candles and romance, and the men think about the sex and the sex and the sex.  Thus proving my point that valentines day is for amateurs, guys who need cheesy commercials which claim that a hideous charm bracelet, that I wouldn’t be caught dead wearing as a toddler, will make their special someone appreciate them… aka blowjob.  I know, I know, I said this wouldn’t be a rant about how much I hate valentines day; and it isn’t,  because I don’t…I swear!   Valentines Day is nice because people have spirit.  I like people with spirit, even if it’s for a holiday in which wealthy, cut throat, businessmen swine brainwash pea brained men into thinking that buying a teddy bear will get them head, even if these businessmen swine are right and women will use these teddy bears to kneel upon, even if the stupidity makes me sick.  Still, I love walking around and seeing everyone decked out in hues of pink and red, puppy dog eyed men clamoring at gas stations for the last dozen roses, friends sending each other ridiculous cards, and laughing at the pathetically annoying “forever alone” facebook statuses…no one cares, no one cares.  I enjoy the valentines day specials on tv, the candy sales in school, the look of joy on so many dumb girls faces who base their happiness on a boy who doesn’t love them giving them a box of chocolates.   Yeah I’m a negative person, what do you want?  It’s still nice, that look of joy.. even if their heads are filled with air, let it be happy air.  I just like when a lot of people set out to do a nice thing, even if that nice thing is motivated by a prospective blow job.  Blow jobs are nice right? I mean, I’m a girl, but I’m assuming they’re nice.  So I guess valentines day is nice in general from giving your friends funny cards, to eating candy, and especially licking lolipops.. if ya know what I mean ;).  Hope yours was swell!  

A Not-So-Innocent Bystander to Someone Else’s Tragedy.

“You don’t look like your mother, you look like your father,” snarled an angry looking man as he kicked a cigarette into the subway tracks, aiming for a rat who was scurrying down there.

Grabbing  the man’s ripped nylon jacket in fistfulls, eyes pleading, a little boys screams, “YOU ARE MY FATHA WHY YA GOTTA GO SAY DAT?!” He is oblivious to the rest of us, the other people on the track.  He doesn’t sound like the age is appearance makes me assume, eight maybe nine.  He sounds like a grown man.  He bets this man that when he’s sixteen they’ll know that the man is his father.  He says, “When I’m sixteen  I’ll bet ya one hundred bucks you’re ma dad.  Outta mah pocket.  I’ll be rich when I’m olda.  I’ll have money.  I’ll bet ya one hundred dollars cash.”  

My mind spins with all the reasons why a child could grow up too quickly, and my throat coils at the thought.

And there I was, little ballerina me, eavesdropping on a very intense, very loud, and very public conversation.  Even though I was quite interested in what they were saying, I didn’t have to try very hard to overhear.  In fact, I would’ve had to try pretty hard not to.  Me, standing there with my cellophane slick bun, in my shabby but chic Steve Madden coat that just felt foolish next to the actual shabby coat the man was wearing.  Clutching my signed Michael Kors dance bag like my life depended on it.  Knowing who my father is, knowing that I have one hundred dollars in my pocket, knowing that I probably always would.  

As we got on the subway the man and the little boy started telling yo mama jokes.  They sat, oblivious to the stain on the subway seats, the stain that had kept me standing after a long day of dance.  The salty oily smell of potato chips wafted towards me as the pair laughed and ate.  Golden crumbs bounce from their lips in a valiant escape towards the gross floor.  A few get stuck on their lips.  Even fewer stay in their opened mouths.  The middle aged blonde woman on her way home from the gym  shakes her head in disgust  at the food on the train and the noisiness of their inappropriate jokes. But, the man and the little boy don’t care.  They laugh as if nothing was wrong, as if they had just had a normal conversation, as if it had been about the weather.  

Me, trying my hardest not to breathe in the smell of pure fried fat as my stomach rumbles along with the train.  My legs ache from the seven hours of dance.  Ignorant, privledged, little me; fortunate enough to starve myself, to make the decision not to eat.  Worrying about my pristine little image, in the pristine little mirrors, at that expensive little ballet school.  While there are people who don’t have potato chips to ignore.  

Like the little boy, I’ve also grown up before my time.  But, not at all for the same reasons.  A decent amount of that growing up took place on the subway. Here on the one train I learned about stolen innocence, poverty, death, fierce addiction, passionate hate, and love.  And I’d witnessed moments like this, a not-so-innocent bystander to someone else’s tragedy.     

Tonight:

amount of V8 juice drunk: 4

amount of songs learned on the ukulele: 3

amount of Real Housewives watched: 1

amount of pages read: 124

amount of poems written: 1.5

amount of homework done: none

true life I am a loser.  

from the back of a trigonometry classroom

I’m writing this in my class to see if anything interesting happens, as it invariably will.  My trig teacher is great, I mean she scares the shit out of me; but for someone who is very right brained scholastically, I do pretty fracking well in trig.  Let’s just say that usually it’s clear I’m an English student.  So, I give all the credit for my A to my teacher.  My trig teacher is the type of person who will say something horribly bitchy and then tilt her curly head, nod, and flash a big toothy grin; as if that smile counteracts her basically calling you a moron.  She’s the type of adult who, without a doubt, was never a child.  I usually try to figure out why people are the way they are, why someone is mean or whatnot.  There always is a reason right?n Well usually I think so, but I firmly believe that she was a raving bitch from the moment she sauntered out of her mother’s vagina in an ill-fitting pant suit.  I have no doubt that she turned to the doctor, tilted her head, smiled, and said, “Well that wasn’t a very good delivery now was it? You idiot must’ve gone to a state school.”  She also most definitely has superpowers in which she can see what I’m writing even though she’s 20 feet away from me.  She keeps staring me down after she asks a question with those beady little eyes.  I refuse to raise my hand.  I will not do it.  

Innocent As A Rose

To Kate, wherever I may find her  

     To quote a very dear friend, I am nostalgic to a point of it being unhealthy.  I spend so much time worrying about how little time I have, that I end up wasting time.  I truly believe that this should be considered a legitimate disease.  It boggles my mind that there aren’t whole health topic dedicated to it or that we do not read about a famous person falling to the disease in the Times on a daily basis.  I should get out of gym for it, or talk for hours about it while lying on one of those cliché psychologist’s beds instead of going to chemistry.  It’s an illness that has plagued me for as long as I can recall, but it gets worse with each new calendar bought, each additional candle on a Carvel cake.  It gets to a point where I’m mourning each second before it passes, mourning my life before it’s over.  I am very aware of it all slipping away.  Here and gone, now and then.  Tick tock… blowing out 16 candles, tick tock… happy 21st!  I want to record it all, write each moment down; every bird that soars by my window, the way my mother’s sweater feels as she accidentally brushes my arm, each of the different clouds that are unique every time I glance up at the atmosphere.  I want to document the sweet smell of his sweat after the big game, the way he looks at me like the sun shines out of my cellulite-filled ass, like I changed the way he views the world.  I want to record my smallest triumphs and failures; a brilliant trade of a Barbie sticker for two Pokemon cards on an elementary school playground, or the failure of the first time I looked with my friends and giggled at someone else’s appearance.  The first time I burned my thumb on a hot stove and how I thought that pain couldn’t ever be topped.  I did not yet know the pain of losing a friend, or worse yet, staying friends with someone who doesn’t truly care about you, and how the white blister on my tiny thumb couldn’t ever compare.  During my dying days I want to remember how my feet felt, stumbling and skipping, through the sand with my friends on a hopelessly perfect summer day.  And I want those I’ll leave behind to read it and feel my feet sinking into the hot grains, sometimes sharp with shells.  I want to show how remarkable it felt, and I mourn the knowledge that one day, before I know it, it will be my last time on a beach.  And I will not be running with my wildly curly auburn mane streaming behind me.  I will probably be perched in a wheelchair, grey hair thinning, trembling at the chill of the wind, desperately trying with all my might to remember my youth.  Living my last days, as I’ve lived the days before.  Nostalgia.

For anyone who has ever just looked up at the sky, contemplated how awesome life is, and was overcome with an overwhelming tsunami of emotion.

But mostly, for those who have not. 

follow http://nostalgicdelirium.tumblr.com/ and meet the girl who inspired this.  

she had the world at its feet; glory.

~And in that moment, I swear we were infinite~

There are moments in life, where you feel so a part of something, so together, so full.  And there are moments where you feel so lonely, so apart, so empty.  The loneliness can creep in while your sitting on a train, desperately trying not to make eye contact with anyone, especially the girl and her boyfriend making out across from you.  Or it rears it’s ugly head at a party, while all your ‘friends’ are laughing over something you will never ‘get’.  And in that moment, when they’re laughing, you realize that you’re spending your time caring about people who couldn’t care less about you.  And worst of all, there’s the loneliness that constantly stabs you in your chest with every uneven breath you take. This constant stabbing, while lying in bed long after your biggest night owl friend has signed off ichat.  Long after you should’ve told her why you can’t sleep at night.  Long after you couldn’t bring yourself to talk about it.  Long after you lied and said “I’m fine”.  And you think to yourself, maybe if I just stop over-thinking so much, it’ll be better.  Or, maybe if I can learn to be a little less me.  A little less emotional, messy, passionate, annoying.  If I buy those cool shoes it could help.  If I will myself to be a part of everything, if I just open myself up more, ask more questions, smile a little wider, stand a little cooler, talk a little louder, drink a little more, laugh a little harder.  But, to be truly happy, none of these things will work.  I need to learn to grasp who I am, and who other people are.  And I need to not try to make myself, and other people, into things we are not.  These moments when you realize how little people care, and how much people suck.  And how Things change. And friends leave. And life doesn’t stop for anybody.

vote for your favorite band name

my boyfriend and I are starting a two person Ukulele band. its going to be fucking awesome. please vote on your favorite band names

1.) The (not so) lonely goatherders

2.) The Metric Couple

3.) Just Two Chemists (We’ll sing on tables… periodically)

4.) The Tardis Keepers

5.) Wizards with Ukes

if you have any other suggestions please let me know

lovecutekiss asked: I loved your tumblr, so beautiful I love your playlist :D

thanks so much!! hope you continue to read

I think youre totally rufus!