I feel so bad for men because none of you will ever know the sheer unadulterated joy of finding a bra that fits you just right. That knows exactly where to give and take, that veil of lace esconsing your breasts like a second skin. Frankly, there is not a man in the world who can hold me as well as this bra does. Keep your whiskey-stained cigarettes and books of poetry, I only want more lingerie.
“Don’t do it. Don’t go to that job you hate. Do something you love today. Ride a roller coaster. Swim in the ocean. Go to the airport and get on the next flight to anywhere just for the fun of it. Maybe stop a spinning globe with your finger and then plan a trip to that very spot; even if it’s in the middle of the ocean you can go by boat. Eat some type of ethnic food you’ve never even heard of. Stop a stranger and ask her to explain her greatest fears and her secret hopes and aspirations in detail and then tell her you care because she is a human being. Sit down on the sidewalk and make pictures with colorful chalk. Close your eyes and try to see the world with your nose—allow smells to be your vision. Catch up on your sleep. Call an old friend you haven’t seen in years. Roll up your pant legs and walk into the sea. See a foreign film. Feed squirrels. Do anything! Something! Because you start a revolution one decision at a time, with each breath you take. Just don’t go back to that miserable place you go every day.”—Matthew Quick, Forgive Me, Leonard Peacock (via e-ndorphins)
“Miuccia Prada started it all in the mid-’90s. She was tired of supermodels stealing the thunder from her garments, so she began hiring blank-faced, anonymous-looking blondes. Without knowing it—and certainly not coming from a racist place—Miuccia started a trend.”—