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I am not going to write a post about how Andrew Jackson Jihad has the dudeliest fanbase of any band
I have ever seen liveat X-fest. Or the fact that it is no motherfucking coincidence that while a band that says there’s a rapist living in all of “our tiny hearts” played, I got groped up for the first and only time in any pit (ever?) all weekend. Or the fact that when I told this to a folkpunk kid, he lectured me about how rapey lyrics come from a “folk tradition,” which is a) false, like, what? even? b) a very white person thing to say and c) bull fucking shit. You know what else is a folk tradition you straightedge vegan asshat? EATING POSSUMS AND DRINKING EVERCLEAR.I am not going to tell that story, nope. I am, however, writing all of it in a letter to David Combs.
Fuck these brahs. They aren’t even from Bloomington.
(Source: youtube.com)
an archive of vanity / an archive of willful irrelevance / an archive of sad / an archive of mean / an archive of internet / an archive of archive
you're probably here to hear my talk about feminist makeupping or mark hoppus or myself or what it means for me to talk about myself or my face or perblogging praxis or theory.
but, you know, the bread and butter of lady blogging: lady biz / pop trash / art / television /.music / fashion / film / books / social justice concerns / zines / cats.
of niche interest: archiving a theory/practice of hair in art / (because trich) / horror / voler / teensploitation / book covers / rats.
I share a couch and a cat with this guy but if you wanna compete for this you oughta buy me shit. I live in MI and probably have made fun of whatever place you live in because it sucks.
see things I have liked on tumblr. see things I made,on the off chance that I make a thing.
