(Source: eightofdiamonds, via ladyindastreetbutafreakinthebed)
At the time I was waiting tables at Hard Rock Hotel in Orlando, FL. I was a cocktail waitress in the VIP lounge, which is Jimi Hendrix themed. I think staring at music memorabilia all day probably soaked my brain with that vibe. One day as I was leaving to go to work I saw a pile of cassette tapes laying on top of a canvas I had set near my door. I thought, “What ghosts could be hiding in those machines?” I pulled out the ribbon and tried to work with it, making some writing. I watched the ribbon curl up and it reminded me of Jimi Hendrix’s crazy hair, so that was the first portrait I made. I had never sold a piece of artwork. But selling was never that important… discovering is the fun part. by Erika Iris
(via bluprint)
Now let the wild rumpus begin, in honour of the king of all wild things.
Maurice Sendak, author of Where The Wild Things Are, dies at 83
Maurice Sendak, the wildly talented, often cantankerous children’s book author and illustrator of Where The Wild Things Are, has died. He was 83 years old.
“I refuse to lie to children,” Sendak told The Guardian in an interview last year. “I refuse to cater to the bullshit of innocence.” (Photos: AP)
(via laurenembrey)
everything keeps getting worse
Well, well, well.
I’m coming down with an ailment and beer didn’t help. Neither did that little lovely lemon slice of heaven. Neither did the pie I had for dinner. So now I’m sitting in my dark, cold room listening to Open Sea which always helps me with my shitty mood in just making me feel more self-pitying as opposed to angry. My physical and emotional toll has reached its limit for the day/week/month which sucks because I’m only through 1/4th of this stupid month.
And I can’t decide what to do with anything because I’m not sure whether I got my job as a skiing instructor. And I’m lonely. And my Converge record hasn’t arrived yet.
Hello, my name is Mr. Burns. I believe you have a letter for me.
