Cowface Communiqués

Name: Ems
Age: 24
Location: Maryland
Occupation: Student

Musings on movies, TV, comedy, photography, and living with boobs and without spatial/motor/social skills in America.

  • I just wrote and deleted a super long post about my crappy neighbors. I will give you the tl;dr version: I have two neighbors who are in their late 50s who sit outside from about 1100 to 0200, every single day. This is a small apartment building. We don’t have a porch or patio or anything, there’s just a sidewalk in front of the door, and they sit on either side of the door. And you have to acknowledge them every time you come in or out. The crackhead upstairs is usually pretty quiet, but my next-door neighbor will start talking and not stop until you start physically walking away and shut a door between you.
  • It used to get on my nerves, but the only time I ever have to deal with it directly is when I’m coming home from work at about 2030, and I always just ignore them even though it makes me feel rude and like I’m a terrible person. I get yelled at all day at work (at the job that I have), when I get home after my two hour bus adventure the last thing I want to do is hear about who your cousin owes money to or be pressured into buying a cat.
  • So I got used to them being there, and it only slightly annoys me now (usually only when their conversations are loud enough to drown out whatever show I’m watching). But today it was raining. And instead of going into their apartments that I can only assume they are legally renting somehow, they just moved inside to the tiny alcove in front of the stairs. This alcove is barely large enough to sit two abreast and not have your elbow in someone’s mailbox, but luckily a lifetime of stimulant abuse will leave you super-skinny.
  • This turned into another super-long post, but the point of the story is today they were parked directly in front of the stairs, inside. I don’t know why. I assume that they sit outside to smoke and talk to people, but you can’t smoke in the hallway (except for the times that my neighbor does and then sprays lemon Febreeze everywhere, which is awesome, because I can pretend that I’m living in a La Quinta Inn on my way to a better adventure) and no one is walking by to yell at from across the street, because it’s FUCKING RAINING. You know a good place to sit and talk? INSIDE AN APARTMENT.
  • So it’s raining, I just went to see Lucy with my parents (which, oh god, it’s my own fault) and I’m trying to get inside. I try the wrong key to the front door, it doesn’t work. Both neighbors just keep sitting there, staring at me. I wave at them. Nothing. I try the other key. It sticks, like it always does when it rains in the summer. They’re still staring at me, just sitting there. I finally manage to open the door. “Hi,” I say. “Hi,” they grunt. “Excuse me,” I say, because I would like to get upstairs and be slightly less damp. Nothing, they say, as they do nothing. “Uh,” I said, as I attempted to wedge my fat ass between their two chairs. 
  • Yes, that’s why I spent all that time writing this, because I had to climb over my neighbors to get to their stairs to my apartment. Mike thinks I’m crazy because I’m so upset by this. I know that I’m crazy and also insensitive and classist and ableist because I hate my neighbors because they have bigger apartments than I do and my rent is $910 and their rent is $0. And I know I am more privileged than I deserve to be, with my bags of groceries and cable internet, and I should invite them for dinner when I cook lasagna and I should buy her cat. but fuuuuuck I hate them so much you guys.
  • What I meant to do was spend one bullet point on this story, and then segue into how I’m in a serious funk emotionally and creatively and interpersonally, and everything sucks and no one will ever want to marry me and the only person who likes me is moving to goddamn Wisconsin, and I’m never going to have enough money to do the things that make me happy. But instead it just turned into this. And that’s why I only use Tumblr to reblog pictures of puppies and kittens.


No joke Joe Biden could seriously get it.

Uh…Joe Biden can still get it, sorry, Mike.

(via britisharistocracy)


Otto, miniature schnauzer, at 8 weeks old

No writing is wasted. Did you know that sourdough from San Francisco is leavened partly by a bacteria called lactobacillus sanfrancisensis? It is native to the soil there, and does not do well elsewhere. But any kitchen can become an ecosystem. If you bake a lot, your kitchen will become a happy home to wild yeasts, and all your bread will taste better. Even a failed loaf is not wasted. Likewise, cheese makers wash the dairy floor with whey. Tomato gardeners compost with rotten tomatoes. No writing is wasted: the words you can’t put in your book can wash the floor, live in the soil, lurk around in the air. They will make the next words better.

Erin Bow (via writersrelief)


(via kyrafic)

(via thewritingcafe)

I just want the attention that comes with people feeling sorry for me. Which, shockingly enough, is better than getting no attention whatsoever.


Meet Whiskey, my 8 week old Cavalier-Pomeranian, enjoying playing in the garden for the first time.

39 plays
Elaine Stritch,
Company - Original Broadway Cast


"The Ladies Who Lunch" from Company, sung by Elaine Stritch.