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A sickening conclusion for the modern ages

i have come to the realization that maybe this was never about love at all. maybe it was never about being too shy to ask first. maybe it was never about late night phone calls and maybe just maybe being something beyond a little trinket you find and put in your pocket on your walk. maybe i was the problem. or maybe im just sixteen. and maybe ill never know which of those are true or if it’s some golden ratio of both- does it matter at all? for a minute there, i had some hope. just please dont look at them that way. please dont hate me forever. please dont make me watch while you continue on like nothing ever happened, without so much as a goodbye on your way out. you really couldnt even bother to close the door?

@kidrecord

Jan 24, 2025

1

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I/You (Her) - ADrian piper (1974)

“It is only because of the defects in my personality that I can finally say this to you. I am protected and strengthened by my inadequacy. I am secure, smugly secure, for my personal flaws will constitute a more than adequate defense against whatever your response might be to what I have to say to you.” “For my imperfection maintains an unbridgeable chasm between us; it protects us both from each other, but most importantly, me from you. The defect I have in mind is that I cannot love you, will never be able to love you. Where there might have been feeling, there is only impersonal interest.” “You hurt me, and betrayed my trust, and for that I will never forgive you. In fact, I would like nothing better than that you see yourself as I do, with the contempt that I do. Because of you, there is a coldness in me, a suspiciousness towards you in all your guises, all your appearances, because of you I withhold my feelings, for I could never trust you to not tread all over them.”  “I want you to realize what you’ve done, and be really ashamed. Ashamed of your conceit, your selfishness, your meanness,  your insensitivity. Understand the extent of your carelessness, and hate yourself for it. Regret, even more than I do, the real friend you might have had.” “I might reason with you, share with you, even extend an offer of help or support; I might indulge with pleasure in lovemaking fantasies about you. But you will never elicit an emotional commitment from me. Take care that you ask of me no more than that we laugh together; for you will be disappointed, if you do.” “After you, I found solace in friendships with men; after that, I healed myself in solitude. Whatever regrets I feel about this are small to me now, and readily transformed into anger and resentment towards you. As you well know, our enmity is ultimately your doing and your choice.” “Now I have learned to thrive on it; I must, in order to protect myself, and thus I alienate you in turn. Our femininity itself can never again be a point of contact between us. I perceive that now, you are no more capable of trusting me than I am of trusting you, and I cry for our mutual impoverishment: that, at least, we can share.” “But insist again that this is your doing, your fault, your choice - not mine. I insist that from the fact of my appearance you jumped to the wrong conclusion, as you always do. You instinctively perceive me as the enemy, and nothing I say or do is sufficient to change that. You punish me for how I look, when that is both irrelevant and out of my control.” “You automatically assume that I neither need nor want you friendship, nor want your friendship, nor would be willing to work for it, even though you have no reason to think this, no reason to assume anything at all. For if you had only given me the chance, I would have shown you where my loyalties lay.” “But you took me off guard once, and it was very painful. I will never give you the opportunity to do that again. My defenses have solidified; there’s nothing I can do. It sickens me to realize that I have grown incapable of overcoming the distance between us. I hate you for doing this to me, and myself for allowing it to happen.”

@juliaprice

Nov 22, 2024

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date idea

The sharp scent of rain tumbles clumsily in as you tease window-hinges wider with the pads of your fingers. A siren trails close behind, uninvited, sears your eardrums, dies off down the block. Your neighbors are arguing again. Laundry, loans, lack of commitment… like yesterday, like the day before. You think it would be suffocating to wrap yourself up in someone else’s sheets.  It’s five o’clock. Leaning against the sill and flicking the radio dial with one recently manicured nail, you tune into the local news. Roaring wall of static, then calm conversation between two anchors bubbling up through an old set of Panasonic loudspeakers. You are feeling incomplete today, like yesterday, like the day before. Rigatoni boils in the kitchen. You check the leftmost cabinet and find strawberry jam, unopened. You check the cupboard and look over a tub of tahini, a collection of canned soup, and a stack of pie tins. You check the counter, behind the cutlery. Finally, you check the fridge, ducking down to see only your own brown-eyed reflection in one last — now empty — jar of Prego. Your shoulders dip. You slip on white sneakers, not-so-white-as-they-once-were. Why did you try to paint the front door? It is peeling now, ugly like a fledgling losing young feathers. Flecks of buttery yellow dapple paisley carpeting. The great outdoors wait for you at the bottom of a cramped stairwell with twin light fixtures, both broken. A sky like an old sweater is draped above Brooklyn, ready to wring itself out again at any moment. Once around the block, rubber soles brushing damp cement, you walk briskly. At first you fling yourself against the humidity, then become self-conscious and adopt a slower pace as you near the corner store. Two dollars, sixty cents. Like last week, like the week before.  You and I, we are looking down at our phones and stumble into each other, halfway home. It is no one’s fault. You recognize me from somewhere, you say, and feel like a bad person for lying. You have never seen me before in your life. I ask for your number. That night you eat too quickly, knowing you’ll wish you’d saved some leftovers. I come over once, then again. We go out for dinner at tacky restaurants, where art deco posters from the nineteen-thirties have pinned themselves up in scattered flocks across worn-out drywall and the menu is printed with strange font on laminated placemats. The appetizer sample photos are unnerving; the bruschetta cowers like a scared animal awash in excessive camera flash. I make a joke about it, and you laugh. We order dishes to share. The food is always better than I expected, but not quite as good as you wanted it to be. You don’t mind. We talk for hours. We agree, ballpoint pens are better. I hold you, and the ten p.m. bus pulls you out of my arms and through the dusky streets, past crowds and utility poles. I hold you, and we rhyme our steps. Burgundy is around us in the leaves and in the dirt. You wear a coat I gave you. I hold you, and we swat flies out on your porch. The days are getting shorter. I hold you, and we watch blu-ray CDs you found on sale. Soft light from the flatscreen plays across your face as you fall asleep. I keep the movie on a little longer. I hold you. In December, we bring a blanket to Long Island and listen to the sound of snow falling on the dunes. You call in sick for work too often. I hold you, and you know my callouses well. We share the same sheets; we are wrapped up in each other. I hold you, and kiss your hair. You smell like candied oranges. The afternoons eat away at one another. Dishes pile like uneven layer-cakes in your kitchen sink, crested with suds. You say you feel uninspired. Now we argue about laundry, and the sounds of your unhappy apartment are heard through half-open windows.  You shout, eyebrows furrowed like the pages of a book. A white plate soars from the grip of a trembling hand, misses an upturned chin, and interrupts us with its shattering. This time, it’s different. Sleep escapes us ‘til the sun is already planted on the easternmost rooftop. I hurt you the way I learned to, and stay awhile, but don’t know why I stay. We sink into sweet, heavy things: the saxophone in “Charcoal Baby”, shared creamsicles on hot Saturday evenings. I see you less and less, and remember less and less of you. Will I see you next week? Yes, if you text me. You forget, just like we’d both hoped.

@ad

Sep 17, 2024

Top Recs from @taterhole

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Never changing

My dad teases me about how when I was a little kid, my favorite thing to do when I was on the landline phone with somebody—be it a relative or one of my best friends—was to breathlessly describe the things that were in my bedroom so that they could have a mental picture of everything I loved and chose to surround myself with, and where I sat at that moment in time. Perfectly Imperfect reminds me of that so thanks for always listening and for sharing with me too 💌

@taterhole

Feb 23, 2025

34

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Finally Quitting the job that you hate

Schedule sent my resignation email for the morning, effective immediately ✅💅

@taterhole

Feb 27, 2025

48

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Rejecting the Commodification of the Self

I’ve been thinking about how much of social media is centered around curating our self-image. When selfies first became popular, they were dismissed as vain and vapid—a critique often rooted in misogyny—but now, the way we craft our online selves feels more like creating monuments. We try to signal our individuality, hoping to be seen and understood, but ironically, I think this widens the gap between how others perceive us and who we really are. Instead of fostering connection, it can invite projection and misinterpretation—preconceived notions, prefab labels, and stereotypes. Worse, individuality has become branded and commodified, reducing our identities to products for others to consume. On most platforms, validation often comes from how well you can curate and present your image—selfies, aesthetic branding, and lifestyle content tend to dominate. High engagement is tied to visibility, not necessarily depth or substance. But I think spaces like PI.FYI show that there’s another way: where connection is built on shared ideas, tastes, and interests rather than surface-level content. It’s refreshing to be part of a community that values thoughts over optics. By sharing so few images of myself, I’ve found that it gives others room to focus on my ideas and voice. When I do share an image, it feels intentional—something that contributes to the story I want to tell rather than defining it. Sharing less allows me to express who I am beyond appearance. For women, especially, sharing less can be a radical act in a world where the default is to objectify ourselves. It resists the pressure to center appearance, focusing instead on what truly matters: our thoughts, voices, and authenticity. I’ve posted a handful of pictures of myself in 2,500 posts because I care more about showing who I am than how I look. In trying to be seen, are we making it harder for others to truly know us? It’s a question worth considering.

@taterhole

Dec 27, 2024

20