can you tell how much i love him?
can you tell that i admire the smallest of his choices? that i am desperate to show my appreciation?
can you tell that i adore his everything?
it’s in the d e t a i l s of his life. his shoes. which ones he decides to buy, decides to wear.
it’s in the way he ties them.
& in the way he allows me my r e v e r i e.
so can you tell how much i love him?
_pls leave caption & credit_
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This Teacher Asked Her Students to Write to an Author. Kurt Vonnegut Wrote Back This
In 2006 Ms. Lockwood, an English teacher at Xavier High School, asked her students to write a letter to a famous author. She wanted them discuss the author’s work and ask for advice. Kurt Vonnegut (1922 – 2007) was the only one to write back and his advice is worth reading.
Dear Xavier High School, and Ms. Lockwood, and Messrs Perin, McFeely, Batten, Maurer and Congiusta:
I thank you for your friendly letters. You sure know how to cheer up a really old geezer (84) in his sunset years. I don’t make public appearances any more because I now resemble nothing so much as an iguana.
What I had to say to you, moreover, would not take long, to wit: Practice any art, music, singing, dancing, acting, drawing, painting, sculpting, poetry, fiction, essays, reportage, no matter how well or badly, not to get money and fame, but to experience becoming, to find out what’s inside you, to make your soul grow.
Seriously! I mean starting right now, do art and do it for the rest of your lives. Draw a funny or nice picture of Ms. Lockwood, and give it to her. Dance home after school, and sing in the shower and on and on. Make a face in your mashed potatoes. Pretend you’re Count Dracula.
Here’s an assignment for tonight, and I hope Ms. Lockwood will flunk you if you don’t do it: Write a six line poem, about anything, but rhymed. No fair tennis without a net. Make it as good as you possibly can. But don’t tell anybody what you’re doing. Don’t show it or recite it to anybody, not even your girlfriend or parents or whatever, or Ms. Lockwood. OK?
Tear it up into teeny-weeny pieces, and discard them into widely separated trash recepticals. You will find that you have already been gloriously rewarded for your poem. You have experienced becoming, learned a lot more about what’s inside you, and you have made your soul grow.
God bless you all!
Kurt Vonnegut
He had ramped up slowly, letting her arousal and endorphins do the work, moving her brain into a space where this felt so amazing, teasing her about how her cunt is such a wet, vulnerable target, about how her clit is straining into it, wanting him to keep going, letting the intensity of it further melt through her. He talked about how one day he might do her ass and breasts, too, which would pull her inner slut out to play even more, but right now, this is just a tease. Only her pussy would get the relentless spanking it needs today. Not her ass, not her thighs, not her nipples, just her greedy, slutty, pussy, selfishly taking it all and wanting it to never stop. Each spank traveling all through her, guiding her into the next one.
Tomorrow, every time she stands, sits, or walks, she’ll be reminded of this moment, and his words will ring through her head: “You’re my good slut, with a pussy made for spanking. I’m going to make you crave this.”
And each time it crosses her mind, she’ll feel it become more true.
I wish more cartoons taught young girls that if a man harasses you or annoys you or whatever you should blow him up with a bazooka and feel no remorse :)))
Ivy leaned back to avoid the propulsion blast. They’ve done this before.
BRAVO.
