— Anna Quindlen, Every Last One (via tiredestprincess)
— (via mrsclarkkent)
the thing about the ultimate cosmic meaninglessness of man is that you can either wallow in your insignificance and the attendant pain that brings in a culture so obsessed with fame and being important,
or you can fall in love with literally everything and everyone in a dozen small ways because everything still exists despite the statistical unlikelihood of it all and that’s a goddamn miracle
To the barista who insisted that I smile before he would sell me a coffee this morning: My existence as a woman in a public space does not obligate me to look a certain way just to make you happy. And you calling me “sweetie” doesn’t change that. Check your male privilege and swerve the hell out of my lane.