"Dear old world," she murmured

"You are very lovely, and I am glad to be alive in you."



Johanna. 25. Chicago. Warrior-writer and adventure-nanny. Gryffindor. Connosieur of mermaid myths and bargain champagne. Narrative junkie. Possibly a swamp monster. Has fallen off more than one stage. Once walked six miles through Kumamoto, Japan without any shoes on because I was too proud to ask for directions home. Good at getting lost. Can make a cocktail out of anything. Arbiter of Fry Law. Namesake of the Sexy Strouse. Fluent at flirting in French. Fluent at apologizing in Japanese. Overthinks. Overdresses. Oversleeps.


My fic // My 8tracks // Theme Songs


Only the hard-hitting questions.

I want to be with you,
it is as simple,
and as complicated as that.
Charles Bukowski (via girlinlondon)

(via mouthfulofsurprises)

The power structure ought to be very simple: the storyteller possesses the tale, and imparts it to an audience. One has the original, and the other creates, upon hearing it, a copy in their own minds. In a way, this is how a community is formed: through a sharing of stories.

But the dynamics of an interrogation result in a complete power shift: a story is no longer something to be shared or accepted, but something to be coerced, questioned, tested, and enslaved. With power now located in the interrogator’s hands, how can the speaker redeem himself? Tell the truth, or convince the interrogator. It will never be clear whether those two goals are identical in execution, or mutually exclusive.
Jeffrey Zuckerman reviews Guantanamo by Frank Smith (via therumpus)

(via therumpus)

Perfectionism is a self destructive and addictive belief system that fuels this primary thought: If I look perfect, live perfect, and work perfect, I can avoid or minimize criticism, blame and ridicule, the painful feelings of shame, judgment, and blame. All perfectionism is, is the 20-ton shield that we carry around hoping that it will keep us from being hurt
Brene Brown (via mindofataurus)

(via nonnonmodernist)

Okay, reality check. Liz is in the trunk of this car, and she is dead. That is a sad, fucked up thing. But you are gonna walk into that school and strut your shit down the hallway like everything is peachy fucking keen.

(via hotelsongs)