We are all alone, born alone, die alone, and — in spite of True Romance magazines — we shall all someday look back on our lives and see that, in spite of our company, we were alone the whole way. I do not say lonely — at least, not all the time — but essentially, and finally, alone.

Hunter S. Thompson, The Proud Highway: Saga of a Desperate Southern Gentleman, 1955-1967 (via art-any-road)

So we shall let the reader answer this question for himself: who is the happier man, he who has braved the storm of life and lived or he who has stayed securely on shore and merely existed?

—Hunter S. Thompson (via words4life-words4love)

The Edge…There is no honest way to explain it because the only people who really know where it is are the ones who have gone over. The others-the living-are those who pushed their control as far as they felt they could handle it, and then pulled back, or slowed down, or did whatever they had to when it came time to choose between Now and Later. But the edge is still Out there.

—Hunter S. Thompson (via duchess-of-waste)

History is hard to know, because of all the hired bullshit, but even without being sure of “history” it seems entirely reasonable to think that every now and then the energy of a whole generation comes to a head in a long fine flash, for reasons that nobody understands at the time—and which never explain, in retrospect, what actually happened.

—Hunter S.Thompson (via duchess-of-waste)

The brutal reality of politics would be probably intolerable without drugs.

—Hunter S. Thompson (via duchess-of-waste)

Organic and Happy: My thoughts on BED and 7 Tips to Recover


BED is kind of ugly.

It’s even uglier when you don’t know what it is at the time.

Have you ever had a nightmare that isn’t totally definable, and is only reconizable by the overwhelming terror you feel when you wake up? That’s exactly what BED is like. Not knowing what it is, not knowing the…

All I could really ask for is to someday find the right words. The words that could describe that three million acre void in my chest every time I get out the words “I’ll miss you,” and the even bigger void when I, well, really am missing you. Today somehow, the topic of wildfires got brought up. I was told that they occur on every continent except for Antarctica. I was also told that Antarctica is considered a desert, even though it’s almost made entirely out of ice and I couldn’t stop thinking how god damn ironic that was. Don’t you think that’s ironic too? Anyway, I guess what I’m trying to say is that, me, when I’m missing you, I’m a lot like those 6 other continents that aren’t Antarctica. My heart gets dry, my head gets hot. My body is prone to flame, the flowers in my chest prone to wilt. That night you asked to kiss me a garden bloomed, one flower by one, around the gates of my stupid heart cage. The daffodils came first, and they warned me that the sun would always be brighter when I was with you. After the daffodils came the buttercups, and shortly after the most beautiful carnations. Simple reminders that with you I would feel youngest and full, and when you were with me, you would feel young and full too. The night that we chased each other through that ice cream parlor like five year olds who got away from their parents, the day we found pretty baskets in the trash at some rich person’s house and took them because they were too pretty to go to waste, the first night I timidly slept on your shoulder; that’s what the buttercups remind me of. And the carnations? They assured me of how much I still adore everything that you are, and they were right. I still do. I can’t believe it sometimes. I have a three million acre garden in my chest. Did you know? And each flower reminds me of something that leads me back to you. When I’m missing you, those three million acres are prone to those god damn wildfires I was talking about earlier. Daffodils start to wilt. The days are cloudy, humid. The days are long. The days are so long. The air in my chest gets dry and it’s the hottest summer in years. My flowers signal thirst until they have no more energy to signal thirst in the first place. Three million acres of wilted flowers, heart ache on fire, spreading, spreading, spreading. Thirsting for one day of rain, your touch. A second day of showers, your lips. And torrential downpour, the sound of your voice when you’re by my side. The sound of your voice. Heartache on fire.
I’ll miss you.

There are wounds that never show on the body, that are deeper and more hurtful, than anything that bleeds.

—Sylvia Plath (via freakykaren)

meanwhile in my head, i’m undergoing open-heart surgery.

—anne sexton. (via about-sophie)