Espressogirl

I am a person who lives in the purgatory between introversion and extroversion. I have a wide variety of interests, ranging from my love for interesting conversation & coffee, to my fondness for interesting conversations over coffee. Some days I know nothing, and others I know everything. I sincerely apologize if you meet me on the latter.

Nov 23, 2009 3:09pm
(via nedhepburn)

(via nedhepburn)
Nov 23, 2009 3:09pm
  • Pete: There are five different types of chairs in this hotel room.
  • Ben Stone: That's way too many chairs for one room!
  • Pete: Did you know there's a guy whose sole job is to find chairs for these hotel rooms?
  • Ben Stone: Please take the chairs away.
  • Pete: Like this one! It's red with gold stripes and -
  • [sits]
  • Pete: - oh, this one is amazing!
  • Ben Stone: Please take the chairs away. I don't like them. The big one is staring at me and that short one is being very droll. Isn't it weird how chairs exist even when you're not sitting on them?
Nov 19, 2009 10:47pm
“ Took a charter flight on a DC-10 to London. Landed at Heathrow. Took a cab to the city center. Don’t let people lie to you: hostels are for the ugly. I’m staying in Home House, the most beautiful hotel in the world. Called a friend from school who was selling hash, but she wasn’t in. Met a couple of Brits who take me to, of all places, Camden Street. I flirt a bit at the Virgin Megastore, buy some CDs, then follow some girls with pink hair. I wandered around trying to get laid, until it started to rain, then went back to Home House. Ministry of Sound is dead, so I go to Remform - but it’s Gay Night. I find the one hetero girl in the place and we dry hump on the dance floor. We cab it back to Home House. I strip her clothes off, suck her toes, and we fuck. I hung out for four or five days. Met the world’s biggest DJ, Paul Oakenfold. Kept missing the Changing of the Guards. Wrote my mom a postcard I never sent. Bought some speed from an Italian junkie who was trying to sell me a stolen bike. Smoked a lot of hash that had too much tobacco in it. Saw the Tate. Saw Big Ben. Ate a lot of weird English food. It rained a lot, it was expensive, and I’m jonesing… So, I split for Amsterdam. The Dutch all know English, so I didn’t have to speak any Dutch - which was a relief. I cruise the Red Light District. Visit a sex show. Visit a sex museum. Smoke a lot of hash. I meet a Dutch TV actress and we drink absinthe at a bar called Absinthe. The museums were cool, I guess. Lots of Van Goghs and the Vermeers were intense. Wandered around. Bought a lot of pastries. Ate some intense waffles. We bought some coke and I cruised the Red Light District, until I found some blonde with big tits that reminds me of Lara. I gave her a hundred guilders. In the end, she pulls me out, and I cum between her tits, even though I’m wearing a rubber. Afterward we made small-talk about AIDS, her Moroccan pimp, and herself. I wake to the sound of a wino singing. It’s 8 AM and hot as blazes. I pretend to ice-skate around Central Station, while someone plays the sax. Trade songs with a Kiwi girl… Then split for Paris by train. Wander the Champs-Elysees. Climb the Eiffel Tower for only seven francs, because the ticket machine was broken. Got the hang of the Metro, took it everywhere. Went to a Ford model party and hooked up with a Romanian model named Karina. She chugs my cock at the Mariott Champs-Elysees, which is good. We played billiards, went shopping. I think she gave me mono. Drove a Ferrari that belonged to a member of the Saudi royal family. Made out with a Dutch model in front of the Louvre. Saw the Arc de Triomphe and almost became road-kill crossing the street… “Oakie” invites me to Dublin, so I catch an Aer Lingus flight and stay at the Morrison. Dublin rocks like you can’t imagine. Oakenfold lets me spin some discs with him. Irish girls are as small as leprechauns. I swap hickeys with a drunk woman. After groping my abs and calling me “Mr. L.A.”, she strips for me in the bath room of the club. Sneak into the Guinness factory and steal some stout so good my dick goes hard… I fly to Barcelona, which was a low-rent bust. Too many fat American students. Too many lame meat markets. I dropped acid at the Sagrada Familia, which was a trip to say the least. Cruise up the coast to the Museo Gala Dali, but had no more acid, which sucked. Some girl from Camden calls me on my cell, so I let her listen to the church bells in Cadaques. Canta Cruz is beautiful, but there are no girls here, just old hippies… So, I went to Switzerland where I, ironically, couldn’t find anyone who had the time. Took the Glacier Express up the Schilthorn, which is beautiful in a way I can’t describe… Euro Pass into Italy and ended up in Venice, where I met a hot girl who looks like Rachael Leigh Cook and speaks better English than I do. She’s living for a year on only five dollars a day. We gondola around, buy some masks. She think’s I’m a capitalist, because my hotel room costs more for one night than she’s spending her entire trip. But she doesn’t mind it so much when I pay the bills… I ditch her and hook up with a couple who obviously want a 3-some. Too much tension there, but the doofus offers to drive me to Rome, an offer I jump at. Traffic is bad and we’re stopped for hours without moving. The wife turns out to be a freak. The guy starts to wig out on me. It’s like a Polanski film… We stop for a while in Florence, where I see some big dome. A bomb goes off and I lose the weird couple, which is probably for the best… Ended up in Rome, which is big and hot and dirty. It was just like L.A., but with ruins. I went to the Vatican, which was ridiculously opulent. Stood for two hours to get into the Sistine Chapel, which - now that it’s been cleaned - looks fake. I meet two under-age Italian girls who I try to talk into fucking each other while I jack off onto them. Bored, I buy them some ice cream instead. My hotel has a gym, so I work out. I bump into some guy from Camden who says he knows me, but I’m sure that he’s a fag, so I lose him. I try to fart and instead shit my pants. Back in my hotel room, I masturbate and have a pain in my groin. That night, I dream about a beautiful girl, half in water, stretching her lean body. She asks me if I like it and I tell her she can clean fish with it. I don’t know what it means, but I wake well-rested, masturbate in the shower, and check out… I make my way back to London and hang out in Piccadilly Circus. Hmm. Palakon. I swap shirts with some upper-crusty Cambridge chick. Hers was an Agnes B., mine a Costume Nationale. She acts stuffy and prudish, but is really wild underneath it all. She barely looks at my abs, though she wants to. The next day, I drop some acid and get lost in the subway for a full day and can’t find my way out. I meet a cute girl who lets me jack off onto her as long as no cum gets onto her Paul Smith coat. We get stoned while listening to Michael Jackson records and the next morning I wake up talking to myself. I have a big bump on my head from flailing in my sleep. I get my stuff and barely make my plane back to the United States… I no longer know who I am and I feel like the ghost of a total stranger. ” -

“Victor”, Bret Easton Ellis’s The Rules Of Attraction. (via nedhepburn)

One of the best scenes.
Nov 18, 2009 12:20am
saraherrera: (via loveyourchaos)

saraherrera:

(via loveyourchaos)
Nov 17, 2009 6:38pm
suicideblonde: Natalia Vodianova

suicideblonde:

Natalia Vodianova
Nov 17, 2009 6:38pm
“ He was my cream, and I was his coffee - And when you poured us together, it was something. ” - ~ Josephine Baker (via gatekeeper)
Nov 17, 2009 6:37pm
constantwanderlust: photoholic: Na Jezvinci by *tomsumartin

constantwanderlust:

photoholic:

Na Jezvinci by *tomsumartin

Nov 17, 2009 6:24pm
“

Stewie: It’s healthier than what they ate in the fifties…

Customer: Steak and donut sandwich please!
Waiter: You want cigarettes on that sandwich?
Customer: What do I look like a Mary? Of course I want cigarettes!

” - Family Guy
Nov 17, 2009 6:18pm
meaghano: I spent 1994 to 1997 harboring the same unrequited crush on a boy who, when he heard, told our entire 4th grade class as we lined up to go back inside after recess, that this couldn’t possibly be true, because “if Meaghan O. liked me, I would be in the bathroom barfing right now.” “It’s not true!” I yelled out, and wanted to die. I mean, truly wanted to die in a way you don’t really want to die anymore when you grow up. Don’t get me wrong, I want to die all the time still but not in that way. Not in that I am nothing way. So I was ass over elbows for this kid for pretty much the rest of my adolescence, and eventually we became friends because I sort of leveled up in popularity self-esteem after quitting Girl Scouts and refusing to wear glasses and reading all of my mom’s Anatomy books so that I told everyone I knew everything I knew about fuckin and then got kicked out of the gifted program because I had a mouth like a sailor and was generally too much of a badass. Anyway we became friends and I would write poems about him and he would find out and I would do presentations in class about Madonna songs I considered to be about him and he would sit through them, and I would give him nicknames and send him long notes about how he PLAYED with my HEART and then we would hold hands during Anne Frank and he would tell me I looked really pretty in my new smiley face hair clip but that Michael Fowler was telling all the boys in PE class that I didn’t wear gym shorts under my pleated skirt. Eventually things escalated and we talked on the phone every night from 4:10 (when he got off the bus and I finished my math homework) until 8pm (when my mom kicked me off the phone because…I…had… been on it for four hours) and when I was grounded he would pretend to have a homework question and we would do our homework out loud and then he would tell  me he just did that so he could hear my voice I would hang up and run and sing and skip around the house and my mom would say, Baby, I hate to tell you this, but that ain’t ever gonna happen. And I probably yelled at her then went and wrote in my diary and made plans to go to the skating rink over Thanksgiving. We went and we held hands during couples skate to LeeAnn Rimes’ “How Do I Live (without you! srsly!)” but we- well, somehow, at 12, we managed to be in the sort of relationship gray area mostly tailored to people our age now! But much like now I was in no hurry to define things! I didn’t care about lousy titles! I just wanted to hold hands during the sad songs so I knew what it felt like and could yell at my mom that I knew what love was more than she ever would! It was fall of ‘97 and I was literally living out a dream— a dream I had written about for years and years in my stupid diaries and in Petrarchan sonnets rife with simile and forced rhyme, in notes to my stupid friends who would always show them to him on the bus ride home, in elaborate math equations, theonly time i enjoy it, attempting to predict the likelihood of our together forever-ness based on vowels and consonants and dammit our names had so many wonderful E’s! — but he told my friend he wasn’t sure. He was 12 and he liked to hold my hand but he had read my sonnets and he wasn’t sure. He had heard my ideas of “Take a Bow” and all it meant and he wasn’t sure.  He could never really know, you see, if he really liked me or if he just liked me because I loved him. He said we couldn’t be together because he could never love me as much as I loved him. No seriously, he did. This was like 1997 and he was emotionally unavailable. Anyway Christmas break came around and I went to Tallahassee to look for our new house and by the time I got back he was GOING OUT with a girl who was in HIGH SCHOOL and the rumor was that he did things to her that Romeo did to Juliet in the Baz Luhrman movie (sorry, couldn’t make that up). Obviously I cried a lot but it fit perfectly with my overtly tragic (Lurlene McDaniel-influenced) sense of how things would pan out for me in the long run. I wrote him notes that would put a grown man TO SHAME. 10, 20 page notes with the rhetorical skill of Friends, Romans, Countryman but more along the lines of, and I quote, “thank you for teaching me what suck feels like”. Eventually my rage subsided into deciding to pretend the girl friend didn’t exist and letting him call me every night again and letting him sneak up behind me in the lunchline every day and put his cold chocolate milk up to my cheek to scare me which only worked the first few times but months and months later was something I got excited about in the shower before school. Soon enough we were passing notes again and I taught him how to write block letters and he taught me about the NBA and we’d do all our assignments together and his hand would always be on my thigh before we knew why we liked it and soon we were getting in trouble for ‘giving each other googly eyes’ in class and people called me a whore for flirting with him and people gave him shit for leading me on but i didn’t CARE because here was my dream so we passed note after note after note and I still have most of them and most of them end the same way. Every time he wrote me a note he would write 8 little ‘lines’ before he signed his name. He wouldn’t tell me what they meant and I was never really sure but he wrote them every time. He would come over and write them on my math homework, on the margins of my social studies notes, on the cover of my religion book, in white out on his backpack. I went utterly batshit but he never gave in, just smiled and shrugged and made my heart pine for him to such an extreme it’s a wonder I didn’t pass out half the time. Soon the lines became some other language between us, carving out a little 12 year old Us-Them before we knew that’s what people did; we wrote our names in block letters and we had nicknames for everything and we’d write Mariah Carey song lyrics in tiny writing at the bottom of our letters and I think that was one of the last times I participated in something, in intimacy, before I could name it. And then one day he told me he broke up with his girl friend. And then a few days later he told me there were 8 lines because there were 8 letters in I love you. And then we totally made out.

meaghano:

I spent 1994 to 1997 harboring the same unrequited crush on a boy who, when he heard, told our entire 4th grade class as we lined up to go back inside after recess, that this couldn’t possibly be true, because “if Meaghan O. liked me, I would be in the bathroom barfing right now.”

“It’s not true!” I yelled out, and wanted to die. I mean, truly wanted to die in a way you don’t really want to die anymore when you grow up. Don’t get me wrong, I want to die all the time still but not in that way. Not in that I am nothing way.

So I was ass over elbows for this kid for pretty much the rest of my adolescence, and eventually we became friends because I sort of leveled up in popularity self-esteem after quitting Girl Scouts and refusing to wear glasses and reading all of my mom’s Anatomy books so that I told everyone I knew everything I knew about fuckin and then got kicked out of the gifted program because I had a mouth like a sailor and was generally too much of a badass. Anyway we became friends and I would write poems about him and he would find out and I would do presentations in class about Madonna songs I considered to be about him and he would sit through them, and I would give him nicknames and send him long notes about how he PLAYED with my HEART and then we would hold hands during Anne Frank and he would tell me I looked really pretty in my new smiley face hair clip but that Michael Fowler was telling all the boys in PE class that I didn’t wear gym shorts under my pleated skirt.

Eventually things escalated and we talked on the phone every night from 4:10 (when he got off the bus and I finished my math homework) until 8pm (when my mom kicked me off the phone because…I…had… been on it for four hours) and when I was grounded he would pretend to have a homework question and we would do our homework out loud and then he would tell  me he just did that so he could hear my voice I would hang up and run and sing and skip around the house and my mom would say, Baby, I hate to tell you this, but that ain’t ever gonna happen.

And I probably yelled at her then went and wrote in my diary and made plans to go to the skating rink over Thanksgiving.

We went and we held hands during couples skate to LeeAnn Rimes’ “How Do I Live (without you! srsly!)” but we- well, somehow, at 12, we managed to be in the sort of relationship gray area mostly tailored to people our age now! But much like now I was in no hurry to define things! I didn’t care about lousy titles! I just wanted to hold hands during the sad songs so I knew what it felt like and could yell at my mom that I knew what love was more than she ever would! It was fall of ‘97 and I was literally living out a dream— a dream I had written about for years and years in my stupid diaries and in Petrarchan sonnets rife with simile and forced rhyme, in notes to my stupid friends who would always show them to him on the bus ride home, in elaborate math equations, theonly time i enjoy it, attempting to predict the likelihood of our together forever-ness based on vowels and consonants and dammit our names had so many wonderful E’s! — but he told my friend he wasn’t sure. He was 12 and he liked to hold my hand but he had read my sonnets and he wasn’t sure. He had heard my ideas of “Take a Bow” and all it meant and he wasn’t sure.  He could never really know, you see, if he really liked me or if he just liked me because I loved him.

He said we couldn’t be together because he could never love me as much as I loved him.

No seriously, he did. This was like 1997 and he was emotionally unavailable.

Anyway Christmas break came around and I went to Tallahassee to look for our new house and by the time I got back he was GOING OUT with a girl who was in HIGH SCHOOL and the rumor was that he did things to her that Romeo did to Juliet in the Baz Luhrman movie (sorry, couldn’t make that up).

Obviously I cried a lot but it fit perfectly with my overtly tragic (Lurlene McDaniel-influenced) sense of how things would pan out for me in the long run. I wrote him notes that would put a grown man TO SHAME. 10, 20 page notes with the rhetorical skill of Friends, Romans, Countryman but more along the lines of, and I quote, “thank you for teaching me what suck feels like”.

Eventually my rage subsided into deciding to pretend the girl friend didn’t exist and letting him call me every night again and letting him sneak up behind me in the lunchline every day and put his cold chocolate milk up to my cheek to scare me which only worked the first few times but months and months later was something I got excited about in the shower before school. Soon enough we were passing notes again and I taught him how to write block letters and he taught me about the NBA and we’d do all our assignments together and his hand would always be on my thigh before we knew why we liked it and soon we were getting in trouble for ‘giving each other googly eyes’ in class and people called me a whore for flirting with him and people gave him shit for leading me on but i didn’t CARE because here was my dream so we passed note after note after note and I still have most of them and most of them end the same way.

Every time he wrote me a note he would write 8 little ‘lines’ before he signed his name.

He wouldn’t tell me what they meant and I was never really sure but he wrote them every time. He would come over and write them on my math homework, on the margins of my social studies notes, on the cover of my religion book, in white out on his backpack. I went utterly batshit but he never gave in, just smiled and shrugged and made my heart pine for him to such an extreme it’s a wonder I didn’t pass out half the time.

Soon the lines became some other language between us, carving out a little 12 year old Us-Them before we knew that’s what people did; we wrote our names in block letters and we had nicknames for everything and we’d write Mariah Carey song lyrics in tiny writing at the bottom of our letters and I think that was one of the last times I participated in something, in intimacy, before I could name it.

And then one day he told me he broke up with his girl friend.

And then a few days later he told me there were 8 lines because there were 8 letters in I love you.

And then we totally made out.
Nov 17, 2009 6:12pm
meaghano: Okay Josh, you just made my day. AND IT HAS BEEN A GREAT DAY.

meaghano:

Okay Josh, you just made my day. AND IT HAS BEEN A GREAT DAY.
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