My therapist told me that my mother made me ache this way, but she did not tell me I would seek the love I missed in the trees and mountains as well as girls with red lipstick and kitten heels. No one warned me about breaking down in supermarket aisles over which peanut butter to buy and ending up just taking home marmite, or crying over not having enough change for the parking metre. My therapist never told me I would have days when I was so happy I couldn’t breathe, and I’d spend the day trying to bottle that feeling until I realised it had already gone. No adult prepared me for how wrong movies got it, or that kissing in the rain rarely happens like you want it to, or that wine tastes like cat pee and beer tastes even worse. No one tells you that your accomplishments one day mean nothing, and you are surrounded by certificates that are ultimately worthless.
I wasn’t ready.
There is no escape. You can’t be a vagabond and an artist and still be a solid citizen, a wholesome, upstanding man. You want to get drunk, so you have to accept the hangover. You say yes to the sunlight and pure fantasies, so you have to say yes to the filth and the nausea. Everything is within you, gold and mud, happiness and pain, the laughter of childhood and the apprehension of death. Say yes to everything, shirk nothing. Don’t try to lie to yourself.
*starts a fire in my kitchen*
*starts fire in my bedroom*
Omfg. Um. Hello there.
*Starts a fire in my pants!!!*
*gets trapped in lift*
The best part is that there’s a fairly decent chance, given the background of the photo (dry wilderness and scrub brush) that the firefighter in this picture is a Hotshot—
And Hotshots, along with Smoke-Jumpers, are sort of like… Okay. If firefighters are rockstars, Hot-Shots are Queen and Smoke-Jumpers are whatever Tony Stark uses to rev himself up for badassery.
Hotshots are elite firefighters who train extensively and are inserted into high-risk terrain in order to fight the fire on the ground.
In layman’s terms—if there’s a forest fire threatening your house, the hotshots are the dudes digging the fire trenches while whirling beams of fire snap give feet from them.
And then, then, there’s the Smoke-Jumpers. As their name implies, they jump smoke.
In layman’s terms—the fires the hotshots can’t reach by land? Those crazy fuckera PARACHUTE into forest fires.
Because jumping out of a plane isn’t scary enough, they do it in near-zero visibility, through scorching smoke, with the risk that the thermals and currents could blow them right into a burning tree, to pick a landing spot so they can then be in remote backwoods wilderness with minimal hope of rescue if something goes tits up.
So yeah. If this lady’s an urban firefighter she’s a huge badass. But if my guess is right and she’s a more elite unit, then I want to have her gay babies like, yesterday.