Oxytocin. (at East River Tattoo)

Oxytocin. (at East River Tattoo)

"See how beautiful my cookies are!"
Reblogged from Odes Roberts


Life’s been pretty crazy these days, but I think I’ll have time again soon to tend to these waters.

To make things short: I’ve got a new job working here, been writing more here and here and have started a new dance party here. And that isn’t even half of it. Life’s pretty swell these days.

Anyway, hi. 

I made an awesome little DJ mix for July. It’s not July yet. Dance anyway.

Probably too much to reveal on your OKCupid profile.

Probably too much to reveal on your OKCupid profile.


When I think of sexy sounding music, The Gossip is often the last thing that pops into my head. Usually when I think of The Gossip, the first thing that pops into my head is an image of Beth Ditto squeezing packets of condiments into her mouth while giggling on a couch somewhere with Perez Hilton, or just generally being the loudest, craziest lady within 20 square miles.

But this song, as remixed by Rory Phillips, is absolutely sexy. Beth Ditto drops the Godzilla-like musical destruction in favor of some paired down vocals that don’t sound out of place on a Coney Island boardwalk clad with disco rollerskaters in the 1970s.

Do yourself a little favor this Monday and time travel - just a little bit.

- Mister Disco

At 7:35 A.M, you lay your tired body on mine
before peeling off, like a slow band-aid.

At 8:40 you sprint home and make instant coffee.

At 9:45 we finally drink it, cold.
I finish your leftover half.

By 10:50 you are already breathless.
I live for every time we overlap.

When 11:55 comes I spend the entire minute convincing you to stay.
You never do.

By noon I put my hands on your shoulders and say, “Baby,
you’re getting thin. All this running in circles and barely sitting down to eat.”

At 1:05 you tell me that while you were gone,
15,300 babies were born.

At 2:10 you don’t say a word,
just come in and kiss me for sixty seconds straight.

At 3:15 we sit quiet, listening to rain falling everywhere
in the world at once: all 15,000 tons.

At 4:20 we pull a little from the tight joint I keep behind your ear.
You do not inhale.

At 5:25 you meet me for happy hour.
My neck already salted, a lime wedged in my teeth,
a shot of tequila sitting on the bar.

At 6:30 I hear the ticking.
I count your heartbeat like seconds between thunderclaps.

By 7:35 I can see you in the distance,
each second a tease until you drape over me.
We always love quick and you never let me hold you.
I dream of drinking you through a straw.

At 8:40 you watch my beard grow 0.00027 of an inch.

At 9:45 we do not speak.
Too many people have died since we last met.

At 10:50 we pray for a meteor,
at least a clumsy kid to spill sugar in our gears.

11:55 is my favorite.
We’re only apart for mere minutes.

But at midnight you’ll apologize sixty times
because it will always be like this.

At 1:04 AM I am already sleeping.
It’s exhausting loving someone
who is constantly running away.

— Megan Falley, “What the Hour Hand Said to the Minute Hand” (via fleurishes)

Men Photographed in Stereotypical Pin-up Poses

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