Hurting myself psychically by looking at Blue Painted pottery from Malqata that I can never own
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Amenhotep III went fucking hard on the crockery and now I have to sit here consumed with lust just looking at it, and feel the devastation of never owning it
The despicable phoniness of people who say, ‘Listen, I’m going to level with you here.’ What does that mean? It shouldn’t even need to be said. It should be obvious — written in block letters on your forehead. It should be audible in your voice, visible in your eyes, like a love who looks into your face and takes in the whole story at a glance. A straightforward, honest person should be like someone who stinks: when you’re in the same room with him, you know it.
This blog is mostly so I can vent my feelings and share my interests. Other than that, I am nothing special.
If you don't like Left Wing political thought and philosophy, all things related to horror, the supernatural, the grotesque, guns or the strange, then get the fuck out. I just warned you.
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