"The Coraline Dunks will not be available for sale but you may get lucky and win them on the website if you go watch Coraline on February 6th- be sure to say after the credits for the secret code. Once you get the secret code, find the Nike shoe box in the Coraline bedroom or here: www.coraline.com/dunks"
1,000 pairsss made
they have tails and animal heads on them. peep the pics from nitrolicious, the blu laces are mad nice. Tails & headsssss! these dunks are quirky and kinda ugly, i love them, my anti-jeremy scott adidas with winngggs
Just now the sprinkler system outside of my apartment turned on. As I hear the hushed hiss of the sprinkles emerging from within the ground with a trickle of water I look to the couch cushion of my right. The faint noise sounds like casey's breathing-the heavy breathing that accompanies a deep cat sleep and coincides old age. I am disappointed not to see her curled up in a ball onto of my sweatshirt within a arms length form where I'm sitting. Although part of me knows she's not there.
Then I think to myself, how did it get to this place?
I understand it more than I did then but that doesn't make it any easier.
Perhaps it makes it worse.
ummm insert something one part lowkey mellowdramatic two part faux-existentialist drabble and serve over ice topped with an umbrella
Can I come home now? Come home into your arms, and when I say your arms, I mean your arms in that place I've called home but 'love can't live here anymore' right now ever ever again In the meanwhile I'm crash at a few friends places until tensions grow and my stay becomes unwelcome and occupy foreign hotels where the synthetic linens scrape and pull at my body until I can come back to home if it's meant that I do, I know that's some overused shit to say and I don't know if I can allow myself to truly believe it anymore, but I'm stubborn and will continue to put 'your arms' into google maps and follow the starting point to my destination
I was born in the wrong decade bluhhhhh cliche blog slap, the imagery just seemed applicable hah:
truth be told i don't even really feel that much game on this song, it's just the principle of the matter that has got me involved they can't all be get lifted tracksss
hah
but mr. legend i'm more mr. cole, i'm more on that i wishh you love trip than that passive agressive shit, no miss i wont diss i'm just onta othhaaa...errra-there's a scratch on my track
this is one of the few songs that has repeatedly, and can still bring me to tears after all this time the presence of love in the song is utterly beautiful and tragic in the most simplistic way strictly the live from sands in las vegas crica 1960 recording epcohal:
i said well daddy don't you know what things go in cycles, the way bobby brown is just amping like michael...
like beebop to hiphop back to beehop sampled in some hiphop...
excursionnssss
a professor in a class i once dropped told me that a poem is never finished, the poet just gets bored, fed-up, impatient, and moves on to the next thing
i see it as there is no end, it is just forged
i wrote this a minute ago and haven't touched it since might as well post it in writing this i think it was the first time i shared my emotions with an audience
with no further ado, "somebodys in trouble, awwww here it goes, ohhh nick, nick, nick, nick, na-nick, nick, nick.." -coolio the kenan and kel theme song
Re: Stuff I remember when we first kissed, and it was really awkward, and then you made a point to announce aloud that it was indeed awkward, but not to fret for everyone’s first kiss is awkward
Awkward has long since ceased to exist between us; we now reside in the land of the comfortable and intimate
Intimate, defined in Webster’s, open up the book, flip through the thumb index:
Umm it falls somewhere after, I dry heaved into your trash can as you brush my hair from my watering eyes, forehead kisses telling me I’m beautiful, just as my whole body violently convulsives, retching once again
And before, I strategically plotted and mapped every notable freckle on your body, tracing each point with my fingers as my eyes are closed, center-nose, upper-left cheek, mid-left neck, left collarbone, left hand in-between the middle and index fingers
Deviating, a devolution from path we have journeyed along, awkward does live and thrive in the vast abyss of the city bus we both happen upon, separated by a chilling coldness, of me wondering who’s that you’re with and what you’re talking about if my name gets brought up what do you say? my insides sobbing, turn into one entangled heartbeat, anxiously throbbing, yearning, yet dreading that in passing our eyes will meet once again It’s like the flustered red-cheek nervous high I experienced when you first put your arm around me at that café, imagining what “us” would be like, but now less novice and seemingly more hopeful
We went from 3 feet high and rising— complete with a complimentary slight creak in my neck, the price to pay for being the one who is spooned on confines of an extra-long twin bed your arms permanently wrapped around my stomach, your chest pressed against my back, sleeping so close to your heart I could never feel alone, you could fill up my empty part
Now restless nights of being alone, fighting back the compulsory urge of my body, trained, to compact itself and press against the wall to make room for you, for now our being is a big question, you tell me our relationship is a clear hindrance to your progression, I’m not at all ready to internalize your words of “don’t bother,” as if de la soul is dead
From time to time I find myself re-reading old e-mails and letters in secrecy, looking over my shoulder to hide from my hurt, but it’s too busy indulging in renunciation unyielding to surrender, it fights back tears in public, puts on a forced smile, robotic small talk and nodding
Still cautious I look over that shoulder, as I reread and replay old conversations in my head as if to retrace where it went wrong, but all I find is where I stopped talking to you and commenced in discourse with a ghost, the desperate pleas of my heart fell to his dead ears,
Even now as I open my lips to speak I’m surprised by my own heart’s will to tickle my vocal cords to plea my case yet once again, trying for you to hear me, my heart grows tired and is unable to rouse another sound from my voice
—but I often find myself thinking about you so dearly, as if to percolate the sound of my unspoken love for you that dispels from my thoughts and being, into a high pitched tone that only resonates in your heart
I’d like to believe you can hear, even from within the highly guarded fortress of your removed emotions: Friday night parties, straight shots of Svedka—no chaser, and coquette antidotes; your effort to forget me
