Courtney Love At The Mtv Vma Rehearsals, 1995

Kurt Cobain, 1992

Beautiful

ENOUGH IS ENOUGH!!!

We, collectively as a society, NEED to return to making weird freak ass goth girls and overall weird girl characters!!!

We must return to the age of drawing weird little girls with knives and edgy sayings that belong on a 90s Hot Topic shirt!!!

THESE ARE THE TYPES OF OCS I WANT TO SEE FROM NOW ON, DAMNIT!!!!

I WANT TO SEE BLINGEE STYLE GIFS OF SAID OCS ON YOUR BLOG LIKE ITS YOUR FUCKING 2005 MYSPACE PAGE, GOD DAMNIT!!!

🗣🗣🗣AND YALL BETTER BE DESIGNING MERCH FOR YOUR WEIRD GIRL OCS TOO EVEN IF YOU AREN'T GONNA EVER MAKE SAID MERCH TRUST ME ITS FUN!!!🗣🗣🗣

Poem — this was a poem I wrote for an assignment. The task was to write a personal version of George Ella Lyon’s poem, Where I’m From. I used some of her formatting, but tried to make it more of my own. This poem is primarily focused on my childhood spent in Appalachia, which many people close to me don’t know about because I’ve been embarrassed of my heritage for a long time. If you have any questions about it, please ask!!

Up the Long Dirt Road, Where I’m From

I am from pine-covered hills and threadbare boots, from fiddles and azaleas. Where rivers run rich with brook trout and minnows, little legs surrounded by pebbles and broken glass. I am from whiskey pacifiers and sweet apple dumplings, from venison suppers and red plaid tablecloths. I’m from Mama’s bitter coffee that shaped my tongue and trickles through my veins.

I am from Pew Bibles and weighted Stoles, from god-fearing chopped blonde curls. Where road signs preach and billboards shame, wooden posts breaking under their pressure. I am from Little Liberty and train tracks, from graffiti crosses and neon slurs. I’m from the carpenter’s wood that carved my limbs and left splinters in my palms.

I am from lingering marijuana, from bonfire perfume and Jack Daniel’s breath. Where pans shatter homes and diesel growls at children, sore bare feet running alone in the night and robins stopping to greet them. I am from beer can targets and stick beatings, from moldy bean bags and rotted food. I’m from bedtime war stories and shoe box memories that left scars on my ears and scrapes on my skull.

In a cabin by the pond, just up a makeshift road, is a hidden tongue and an embarrassing voice. The sound of intelligent ignorance and a banjo’s cries, flatfoot stomps and disappearing laughter. Where I’m from, we learn to be silently stupid and camouflaged by the trees.

San Francisco on expired fujifilm industrial 100

₊˚ emily the strange 🎹🥩ᛝྀིྀ ₊