from far away…

…things aren’t always what they seem. You have to look closely for the truth.

I’m a little crazy…

…about these mental disorder posters by designer Patrick Smith. Proof positive that all it takes is a simple idea to create something fabulous that forces you to question your perspective–and your sanity. I’m particularly fond of OCD.

these are tulips.

I think I’ve always loved tulips, a love renewed after reading Michael Pollan’s Botany of Desire, and now here again after seeing these stunning aerial photos of the famous tulip fields in Holland.

this is not a fashion blog.

this is a things-i-love-need-and-want blog. And I love-need-and-want these things from the Boy by Band of Outsiders pre-fall ’12 collection. But can likely afford about .0005 percent of it. Still, thank you for reading my mind, BBBOO. All is forgiven and I look forward to getting lucky on eBay in the very near future, perhaps scoring a shirt or a pair of socks.

creepy photos of dead strangers.

you can find all sorts of black-and-white vintage family photos at Brooklyn flea markets. And now, the next time you come across a box of them and wonder “why the heck would I buy these?”, you’ll think of this cool-eerie-artsy collage.

this never gets old.

farewell, pink building.

My imaginary home. You will be missed. And I’m sorry I didn’t photograph you, before you burned up.

Some say, you were the latest to be sacrificed. For development. Out with the old, in with the new.

there are 2 kinds of people in this world.

The kind who ate up every bit of March of the Penguins. And then, those who think otherwise. I think I’m mostly the former, thanks to Morgan Freeman. But…I love this.

Photo: Over-dose

I’m sad as often as I’m happy.

i played with barbie ’til age 16.

there i said it. I was obsessed with the clothes. the hair. And I honestly didn’t think I could put away my dolls until I’d solidified an unbreakable bond between my alpha Barbie and commitment-phobic Ken.

Around age 16, I thought I was getting “too old” to carry on my romance with the plastic princess. In my self-conscious teenage mind, my Barbie love affair was an embarrassment, and a constant reminder that she had all the things I wanted and didn’t have—frizz-free shiny hair, a trunk filled with cool clothes, attention from boys, a smiling pimple-free face plastered across the yearbook. So, in a bit of a resentful rage, I ended it. I broke up with Barbie. I stuffed her and all her fabulous accessories—and major piece of my childhood—under my bed.