help i'm tumbling and i can't get up

Patti you’re the pickle in my coleslaw,
Patti you’re the sugar in my tea,
Patti you’re the relish on my hot dog,
And Patti you’re the mayonnaise for me whoa whoa whoa!

Patti you’re the pickle in my coleslaw,

Patti you’re the sugar in my tea,

Patti you’re the relish on my hot dog,

And Patti you’re the mayonnaise for me whoa whoa whoa!

(via hellogiggles)

Maybe it’s because the weather’s been cooling down a bit, but I’ve been noticing a lot of people outside walking, jogging, and biking. Just after dusk a few nights ago, I saw this dude sprinting faster than I was driving. I mean, he obviously meant business (shirtless; holding this little glow stick so he could practice running with a baton whilst staying safe, I suppose), but can y’all stop being so active? I was, like, driving to the store to get Doritos.

Edited to add that I saw a runner stop and do push ups while waiting to cross the street.

"Sexiness wears thin after a while and beauty fades, but to be married to a man who makes you laugh every day, ah, now that’s a real treat."
- Joanne Woodward

"Sexiness wears thin after a while and beauty fades, but to be married to a man who makes you laugh every day, ah, now that’s a real treat."

- Joanne Woodward

I got a phone call to my house from a telemarketer today. After that obligatory pause I usually use to hang up the phone, the man asked, “Is Park home?” Not Mr. Park or Mrs. Park— just Park. I said, “No, he isn’t home right now,” to which the man responded, “Is his wife home?” I said to him, pleasantly, “Nope, she isn’t home right now either. It’s just me,” resisting the urge throw him for a loop by saying, “Actually, Park is in a domestic partnership. Good day, sir.”

Totally miss the days when Chan Ho Park was one of the Dodgers’ better pitchers. Fans would call my house asking for my dad saying, “Is this the Chan Ho Park?!” I always wondered how they found Chan Ho Park's number, but I don't think anyone's looking for it nowadays … and it ain't just because he's playing in the NPB.

I have a lot of lucid dreams. In fact, I can honestly say that by the end of every dream, I’m completely conscious of the fact that I’m dreaming. Dream-me will be one hundred percent immersed in whatever task until real-me tells her, “Don’t get too (emotionally) involved now. This is a dream,” at which point neither of our hearts is in it. Dream-me doesn’t see the point in going forward, and real-me is frustrated. It’s kind of like waking up mid-dream and not being able to go back to it exactly the way it was … without the waking up part.

The other night, I had a dream that involved murder, multiple realities, Joshua from this season’s Project Runway (spoiler alert: he was totally the murderer), and an ex-boyfriend. Weird, right? But the most bizarre part of it was that when real-me told dream-me it was a dream, dream-me very aggressively retorted, “No it isn’t. This is real.”*

* Not in ANY WAY debating the proverbial what-is-real question. Puh-lease. I am not 18.

It’s so hard to forget pain, but it’s even harder to remember sweetness. We have no scar to show for happiness. We learn so little from peace

Chuck Palahniuk  (via ambivalencee)

(Source: chanelbagsandcigarettedrags, via roboton)