80s-90s-stuff:

japanese Firefox poster, 1982

80s-90s-stuff:

japanese Firefox poster, 1982

Even more important than being drunk, however, is having the right car. You have to get a car that handles really well. This is extremely important, and there’s a lot of debate on this subject – about what kind of car handles best. Some say a front-engined car; some say a rear-engined car. I say a rented car. Nothing handles better than a rented car. You can go faster, turn corners sharper, and put the transmission into reverse while going forward at a higher rate of speed in a rented car than in any other kind. You can also park without looking, and can use the trunk as an ice chest. Another thing about a rented car is that it’s an all-terrain vehicle. Mud, snow, water, woods – you can take a rented car anywhere. True, you can’t always get it back – but that’s not your problem, is it?

(Source: youtube.com)

  

Lykke Li - Little Bit

lecoledesfemmeslaurasfez:

Saints have to come from hell, not heaven.

lecoledesfemmeslaurasfez:

Saints have to come from hell, not heaven.

Sometimes I leave my workout feeling as though I’ve overcome something, that I’ve put myself to the test and emerged triumphant. Then on that seemingly endless journey from garage to bathroom, I’ll begin to strip off my hand wraps and sweat soaked football jersey (the colours of a club I feel no particular loyalty or affection towards) and bask for a brief moment in the glow of being closer to some ill-defined and inarticulable goal.
But sometimes on the long walk back I’m struck by a very particular memory or a specific regret, and I’ll want to turn back and start the whole day’s programme again, and again, and again, fists landing like waves against a craggy coastline until my hands are bloody stumps and maybe then I’ll be able to fucking live with myself.

Sometimes I leave my workout feeling as though I’ve overcome something, that I’ve put myself to the test and emerged triumphant. Then on that seemingly endless journey from garage to bathroom, I’ll begin to strip off my hand wraps and sweat soaked football jersey (the colours of a club I feel no particular loyalty or affection towards) and bask for a brief moment in the glow of being closer to some ill-defined and inarticulable goal.

But sometimes on the long walk back I’m struck by a very particular memory or a specific regret, and I’ll want to turn back and start the whole day’s programme again, and again, and again, fists landing like waves against a craggy coastline until my hands are bloody stumps and maybe then I’ll be able to fucking live with myself.

How strange it is. We have these deep terrible lingering fears about ourselves and the people we love. Yet we walk around, talk to people, eat and drink. We manage to function. The feelings are deep and real. Shouldn’t they paralyze us? How is it we can survive them, at least for awhile? We drive a car, we teach a class. How is it that no one sees how deeply afraid we were, last night, this morning? Is it something we all hide from each other, by mutual consent? Or do we share the same secret without knowing it? Wear the same disguise?
It is a battle of amateurs and semiprofessionals — an emotional, dirty, ad-hoc war and a major accident waiting to happen.

The car scene from Before Sunset. I must’ve seen this a dozen times but, fuck man, I never really listened to it.

  

Thom Yorke - And It Rained All Night