"Be you. Be unique. Do things you believe in. Do your passion. Make a living at it. Sing for the teachers who told you that you couldn’t sing."Work by Sarah Dayan inspired by "Sing" by The Dresden Dolls

work by Sarah Dayan

innerear

innerear:

Be My Guest / Spreading The Love / Week 6 / Day 5

sounds shared by Cecile Poulain [ go here ]

Kent - Vapen och ammunition - Elite

[maiden]

so by halfway through the party (meaning 1:30AM) your entire face was splatter-painted from your own blood from the gashes on your palms from trying to pick up broken glass from a smashed virgin mary de guadalupe candle that fell from the mantelpiece from how bad the floor was shaking from everybody dancing just alittle too hard.
 
you had predicted this would happen before you ever entered the joint. your friends were reluctant to check it out at first because the crowd looked so smart. art-hip. too sharp. sexy, seasoned party pros. the line-up looked like a vintage clothing boutique had fucked a gallery opening while some seapunks watched and some crustkids beat-off and fell asleep on the couch. to be upfront about it, even you were a little taken aback by all the rampant cuteness. this was, like, the shar-pei of house parties. but you were on a mega-crush mission and knew you had to go in there one way or another, so you rallied the troops with a do-or-die diatribe.
 
“listen: we’re gonna go in there, they’re gonna hate us til they talk to us, and then they’re gonna love us, and then it’s gonna be a fucking full-on shit-show dance-party with us right in the center of all the action! come on, you guys, we’ve been down this road before so many times… this’s what we do best! right? now hands in the middle, everyone say Babysitters Club on 3… 1, 2, 3…”
 
a few hours later and your prediction was proven right, you and your people caught smack dab in the eye of a acid-house booty storm. and you were killing the place, alienating the vanilla-folk and impressing all the weirdos. at one point you realized that you were surrounded on the dance floor by every single cutie-pie that you had shot eyes at on the way in. even the babes who looked blatantly uninterested and (frankly) out-of-your-league were bumping butts with you and singing into your mouth. and before long you were officially the least dressed person in the place in just your slacks and socks and undershirt, flanked by walls of cocktail dresses and pastel pairings, a landscape of upside-down cross jewelry and pentagram polka-dots and 666 stick-and-pokes and all manner of trivialized occult imagery.
 
while your best girlfriend leaned over to whisper to you, “favorite party of the year,” you caught something out of the corner of your eye. it was an entrance for the history books: the babe of all babes, the babe that you’d been all bent-up about since summer, the babe of honor at that night’s going-away party, none other than the ever-babely tina nagel.
 
now, you can take some artistic license here and skip the part where you got nervous and fled outside for a few consecutive cigarettes. forget how you spilled your flask of tequila-and-lemonade as she approached you to say hey. overlook the feeling of pure unadulterated puppy-love that overtook your whole body when the babe-dog herself hugged you hello. zoom ahead past all that to the point in the night where the crowd started to head-out or get kicked-out and your friends wanted to follow-up at a 5AM bar up north, but you just wanted to spend the rest of the night with tina in west pilsen in her bed doing whatever the fuck she wanted to do. flash forward through that drunkenly perfect game of bumped heads and swapped spits and warm cum and the occasional readjustment of tangled up arms and legs. skip past that by a couple of scenes to about 11:30AM and your favorite shit of all — morning after dialogue.
 
you both rolled awake, played a little kissy face, compared hangover statistics, and sparked up the biggest of tina’s hash-infused going-away joints.
 
she peaked over at her bedroom door and asked you, “what do you think it looks like out there?”
 
you told her, “probably like the first scene in Animal House. or the last scene in The Conversation. or every scene in The Rules Of Attraction.”
 
she hit you with her lavender pillow a couple of times until you stole it away, covered her face with it, pretended to suffocate her.
 
you said, “shhhhhh… quiet now… it’ll all be over soon.” and when you pulled that lavender pillow off of her face she was smiling a mile wide and laughing too hard to make any sound, so you kissed her immediately and landed nothing but her perfect pearly top row. and you told her, “i had a lot of fun.”
 
and she said, “yeah! me too.”
 
and you said, “maybe you should move away more often.” but you sure as hell didn’t mean it.

innerear

innerear:

Be My Guest / Spreading The Love / Week 6 / Day 4

sounds shared by Cecile Poulain [ go here ]

Jennifer Rostock Schlaflos - Schlaflos - Ein Schmerz und eine Kehle

[ video ]

[ conducive ]

Original words by [ Dakota Loesch ] [kiss like big dogs]

i guess there might’ve been a few things that could’ve given her that impression. but whatever the case, my girlfriend thought i was gay when we first met. which i always take as a compliment. and i also think that’s why i had the guts to try kissing her goodbye on the lips at the end of the night. who knows? i thought it seemed romantic at the time, but it could’ve come off as a dumb move. either way, it definitely made for a real interesting conversation starter on our first date.

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innerear:

Be My Guest / Spreading The Love / Week 6 / Day 3

sounds shared by Cecile Poulain [ go here ]

Dick Laurent Is Dead - Colour In Your Hands EP - Colour In Your Hands (ft. Fink)

[ video ]

[ sith ]

Original words by [ Dakota Loesch ] [kiss like big dogs]

i’m in love again, y’all. no, seriously. can i get a small fucking round of applause for that? i’m in LOVE again. real love. super-real real love. soul-shattering real love. i’m in forever love. and with him of all people.
 
he’s 6’3” with busted teeth, big ears, and kinda sad brown eyes. he’s named after a state or some shit like that. he’s an awful cook, god-awful. and a terrible liar. but i dunno. he’s pretty fucking dope at karaoke. he once brought the roof down at alice’s with a version of I BELIEVE I CAN FLY. plus, he’s a pretty decent kisser. just don’t tell him that or he won’t shut up about it. oh, and he snores, like, bad.
 
what else? he smokes weed first thing in the morning every morning. he’s high most of the day, especially when he’s at work. um… he has, like, a thing for dirty amrpits? like some kind of sex-thing or a fetish or whatever? he also writes this awkward confessional-style poetry that tends to make random strangers fairly uncomfortable. i can’t really explain it, he’s just my type. i, like, love him so much that i actually likehim… d’you know what i mean? i don’t wanna speak too soon or anything, but i think he might be the like-of-my-life. no joke. so it’s kinda crazy for me to think about how i’ve been trying to murder him for the last twenty-five years.
 
it was never a weaponized attempt (bullets, blades, etc.) but rather an elongated long-term process disguised as good times: brushes with alcohol poisoning, powdered speed disguised as sassafras, occasional heroin dosages. and it wasn’t just substances aiding in my homicidal intent. there were seemingly random health scares, a couple of car accidents, a few outnumbered fist-fights with wrigleyville meat-heads, a near drowning. but nothing seemed to kill him though. he’d always get away with it somehow and skip the check on death at the last second, specifically when he was nineteen years old… the human body should not be able to ingest that much cocaine, unprotected sex, bad wine and good vibes in a mere 365 days.
 
so no, i never actually got around to offing him. and i had plenty of chances and plenty of tries, but not a single one of them worked-out. so after a while i just stopped. that was pretty recently, actually. i just got bored with it. because why? it’s hard to say.
 
i guess after a while, a long while, he sorta started growing on me. even his lame-ass dad jokes, and his shitty homemade haircut, and his awful taste in movies, and how you just look at him and know that he’s picturing kissing you, or about to try kissing you, or you blink and it’s too late because he’s already kissing you. i might even think he’s a little cute in that “aw… what an idiot” kind of way. maybe it’s because he loves me. and i love him. which is cute. and convenient. and refreshing.
 
i don’t know about you, but i think it feels really nice to finally love yourself again. so yeah… like i said…
 
i’m in love again, y’all.
 
and i’m also single.
 
just saying.
innerear

innerear:

Be My Guest / Spreading The Love / Week 6 / Day 2

sounds shared by Cecile Poulain [ go here ]

Souad Massi - Raoui - Raoui

[nebulous]
slacks and a collared shirt, both the same sun-bleached kermit green color. a vanilla vest on top. a pink tie with some embossed/shimmery paisley print bullshit on it. one matching pink kerchief in the outer breast pocket of a camel hair blazer. a black belt. black boots. black socks. black underwear (fingers crossed). plus, a little yellow flower broach outlined in gold for the blazer on the side opposite the kerchief. and, finally, one single tiger stripe of bleach blonde in your brown-black hair.
 
that is the recipe for the perfect good-time get-up.
 
now, you’re gonna purchase said ensemble for ten dollars and twenty-odd cents at that little thrift store off of elston on january the 17th during the height of their winter wonderland freeze-out sale.
 
you’ll be in there just pacing, both your hands and your forehead dripping, your thumbnails chewed down to nothing. you’ll be nervous as all get-out for literally the whole entire time that you’re in there. and not because you give a shit about high fashion or haute couture or surface aesthetics or anything like that. hell no, not at all. no, you’re gonna be freaking-out in there because you’re gonna be basing all of your outfit choices on what you imagine your babe-dog mega-crush might wear that very night to her going-away party.
 
what if she’s in her oversized bulls jersey (91 – rodman) with black tights and flats? what if she wears high-waisted acid-wash jeans and her black-and-white DON’T ASK ME 4 SHIT t-shirt with a pair of old sneaks and no socks on? what if she don’t wear no shoes at all? she might be barefoot in an orange-ish floral print summer dress that looks like your grandma’s old curtains, a potleaf earring hanging from her left lobe. fuck, for all you know she could be rocking a crushed-velvet gown adorned in golden detailing, one that’s dark-violet to match her freshly re-dyed purple hair.
 
and it’s at this point that you’ll find a dressing room and masturbate to this fucking theoretical fashion show that you’ve invented in your half-stoned head. you’ll cum quick and quiet and twice while trying to hold your breath for the sake of not drawing attention to yourself.
 
this definitely won’t help with your sweating. it won’t stop your rampant anxiety. it won’t make you act any more nonchalant. it definitely won’t make you anymore confident about your clothing picks. but it might make you stop in the check-out line to spend an extra four-or-five bucks on sour gummy worms and mountain dew. and it might just explain why you grin like a cheeky little bastard when your mega-crush tells you that you’re the best dressed babe-dog at her going-away party.