Regina Cannot Explain It All


I'm Regina Small. I'm a writer and editor in NYC. I have a lot of opinions.


Interests include: sci-fi/fantasy, literature, summertime daydrinking, trying to be a better person, fancy manicures, philosophy, pictures for sad children, and the role of irony in the modern world. And fandom, of course.

I have another blog dedicated exclusively to science fiction/fantasy. Read it here.

Recent Tweets @reginasmall

fuckyeahbroadcity:

Started from the bottom now we here.

I can’t even specify what about this entire gifset just feels like me but here you go.

katworunyagisa:

Person: “I’m just gonna play devil’s advocate here and—”

Satan: “Whoa whoa hey I didn’t agree to this I don’t even know you.”

(via ohhmary)

I just realized that James Spader’s character in Secretary is named “Mr. Grey” and now I just feel vaguely irritated.

  • book: meaningful consensual sex scene that has implications for both characters and gives insight into the nature of a 30+ year long relationship
  • show: rape

whoistorule:

jaime would not rape cersei

the whole point of that fucking scene

is that she says yes

she says you’re home

she says you’re here

and then he fucks it up NOT BY FUCKING HER but by PROPOSING TO HER and telling her that they can replace their dead son with a new one

it’s not the sex that’s the problem it’s jaime’s newly arisen insecurity from his lack of a sword hand

THE WHOLE POINT IS THAT CERSEI SAYS YES

(via natface)

succulentthighs:

Do you ever just like flex your foot wrong and it cramps and you’re just like this is it, this is how it ends 

(via jopara)

(via jopara)

Abbi, parkour is terrifying, I know, but you’ve got to get back on that urban jungle. I’m gonna walk you out and watch you do it.

(via fuckyeahbroadcity)

My blood is alive with many voices
telling me I am made of longing.

A poem in which I don’t compare
you to anything.
In which you are not an
elevator that I got stuck on,
or a train that never left,
but no more than a person.
No less than a person.

Today, you are not a mistake
or a rip in my tights or a lesson.
Today, I take myself home and undo,
undress, unlearn.
I take myself home and
write a poem about my skin
for the third time in a row and
then wash myself in it until
I’m clean and new.

A poem for the first full month
that didn’t hear the ache
of your name,
and for every month after.
A poem in which I am singular.
A poem in which I am more than
the people who never wanted me,
and I know this.

Caitlyn Siehl, “Singular (via alonesomes)

(via lifeinpoetry)