And finally this question, the mystery of who’s story it will be. Of who draws the curtain. Who is it that chooses our steps in the dance? Who drives us mad? Lashes us with whips and crowns us with victory when we survive the impossible? Who is it, that does all of these things? Who honors those we love for the very life we live? Who sends monsters to kill us, and at the same time sings that we will never die? Who teaches us what’s real and how to laugh at lies? Who decides why we live and what we’ll die to defend? Who chains us? And Who holds the key that can set us free… It’s You. You have all the weapons you need. Now Fight!

Sweet Pea, Suckerpunch
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I’ve decided to go Thoreau. Or Emile Hirsch a la Into The Wild, without the trust fund or Oxfam donations or the nature shit. And there will definitely be no berries. No, my desire to live in an enchanted forest stops entirely at the theoretical phase. My feelings towards the great outdoors are still best summarized by the great poet, Some E Cards, who once said “I am outdoorsy in that I like to get drunk on patios.”

I’ve decided to start the divesting of my earthly belongings with the recycling (+1) of about a decades worth of lady magazines. I also went to Target and bought a Buddha fountain and some lucky bamboo. Every night before going to bed I pour out a little of my water (plastic, bottled, sorry) to my homies. This should start me on the path to Saint Jolie-dom right?

EDIT: Please note on the far left that is in fact an issue of Rolling Stone with Howard Dean on the cover. Remember Howard fucking Dean? Holy shit I am old.

Nick Zinner Love

He is so goddamn dreamy. You other ladies can have your Chris Hemsworths, and your Ryan Reynolds, I will take my men skinny, pale, and with a delicate bone structure, thank you.

(not sure of the origin of the first photo, but the second is from the Nylon June/July 2009 issue, and was taken by Kenneth Cappello)