Related Recs

♥️

prose written for ago

An old man comes into my line , hunched over and dragging his feet,  As he puts items on the conveyor belt i see his knuckles white, and taunt with letters spelling “R-I-T-A” RITA reveals his youth to me, she paints à vision of the couple behind him I can see him standing with à woman, who’s young with à soft voice that creeps under the music my job is playing. She buys à single bag of candy smiling as her child pulls on her arm.  Her partner, doesn’t seem to match the town we’re in and when he puts cash on the counter his knuckles read “R-I-C-O” instead, RICO’s face mixes into someone from home and I wonder if he’ll live the same life as the man in front of him or meet the same fate as the latter.  Will he be able to retire in à sleepy town like Rita’s lover? Or will he die young, far away from the smiling girl trying to prove himself? His mother would wake up in à cold sweat to 30 missed calls. She’ll think of him at 6, nervous for his first day of school and collapse on the floor at his funeral. His childhood friends would rush over even though they haven’t seen him outside of Facebook in 16 years But they’ll remember the important things, like him learning to ride his bike and getting à tattoo to match his dad for his approval even though it didn’t work. His dad would look at the casket and shed his first tears in à decade realizing that perhaps he was too hard like his father before him After the quiet of the funeral, his friend would go back home to his empty apartment and have à longing for home and feel the need to visit home to see his mother to reminisce. She would be the woman coming into my line now. Smile lines reveal to me the years of joy he’s brought her and in her bag, 6 oranges symbolizing good luck. She tells me the good news of her son visiting and tells me while talking that hes far older than me I smile and ask her to guess my age “17” she says proudly. I feel disappointed that she didnt guess correctly. Everyone says that I’ll miss these years of mistaken Identity. But in my youth I wish to skip it. At age 20 , I wish I had à life of tattoos and lines that express à life full of laughs I’m aware that with this change that no one will see me as the girl that I am anymore but this refined thing. No one would see me as carefree and fun loving as à mother but irresponsible and immature. At the young age of 40 no one will see me as curious but nosy and stupid By then I won't be insecure but desperate, by then I should be wise. I wonder if the woman in front of me remembers her first boyfriend vividly or her mother cutting her deeply for the first time or does she just feel the grooves that have been carried in her At 60 will she remember being at the edge of the windowsill at 14 and view it as an error of her youth? And when she saw the same signs of decline in her own daughter will she ignore it like her mother had done her and instead clasp her daughters hands in prayer and force her to her knees. Or would she view her daughter pulling away as necessary instead of à sign of abandonment and remember that in her youth she was her daughter and vice versa

@iheartcakez

Feb 13, 2025

🏡

My grandparents’ house, Despite the horrors I’ve written about in the story pinned to my profile

I have a lot of terrible memories that took place there but there are also beautiful memories. they had a comfortable warm and inviting home in the country and in the moments where I wasn’t being confronted with my family dysfunction I felt so normal. They called the bedroom my sister and I would stay in the princess room; it had two twin beds and a huge collection of VHS tapes, board games, and vintage children’s books. When I grew up my boyfriend and I got to stay in the one of the grownup rooms with en suite bathroom, pictured, which was a defining moment for me. I loved waking up before everybody, making coffee in the sun room, sitting there and reading the Dallas Morning News looking out into the garden. My grandfather sold the house before we had our falling-out and they’ve since passed so I couldn’t go back even if I wanted to. — I would also say my paternal grandfather's house, which sat on a huge tract of land with pecan and pomegranate trees which we would pick up off of the ground. An irrigation dam ran behind it. In the winter, I would stomp on the cracked dry earth to break it beneath my feet, and shatter the ice that would form in the bird bath. The walls were lined with my great grandmother’s pastel art from when she went to finishing school and my grandmother’s embroidery pieces. There was a wood paneled library with smoke-stained classic books, many of which I have with me today. My dad and his brother had a play room painted in primary color blue, yellow, and red, and my sister and I could play with all of their old toys and look at their old books. My grandmothers glass shoe and bell connection as well as her vanity set had all been left exactly as they were and I would admire them every time we visited. She died before I was born but I always felt a strong connection to her and I would love to have space to display her collections someday! And I adored my grandfather who had been so prickly with my father and his brother but was so sweet to me. He would always give me porcelain dolls he bought on QVC. his house smelled like rotten bananas because he would buy them and forget to eat them. He died when I was about six years old and I said why couldn’t it have been my other grandfather that died (lol). I miss him a lot and I think he would be proud of me! 🫶 — Oh and my mom‘s dead gay best friend Jackie’s house which he shared with his partner Aaron, a sculptor who was close friends with Cormac McCarthy. I learned everything about sophistication in decor from them and their house was my favorite place on earth. He would have a huge Christmas party every year and go BALLS TO THE WALL DECORATING; other professors from the university and artists would hobnob and I would eat inappropriately too many hors d’oeuvres (he would get all of his charcuterie and shrimp cocktail from COSTCO). His kitchen had black and white checker board floors with cherry red accents and Betty Boop decor. I miss him so much too!!!

@taterhole

Jul 18, 2024

🕯

Mourning

This is a little long winded and personal. Please forgive me. It's been exactly one year since my great aunt passed away - she was a pillar of the family, a very intelligent and witty woman whom we all loved. She used to cut out stories from the newspaper/ magazines and mail them to me while I lived away, and she had the most incredible handwriting I’ve ever seen. She was, to use one of her favorite things to call me, a “real mensch.” Less than 48 hours after that, I got broken up with. We had been dating for almost two years. It was the healthiest relationship I had ever been in. Yet, we were laying in my teenage bedroom at my parents house, and she was crying. All I remember is thinking to myself “FIGHT for her you DUMB MOTHERFUCKER, you CAN’T lose another woman” - but I didn’t. I was scared. And just like that, the best year of my life came crashing down in spectacular fashion. Two extremely hard hits at once. I had to keep moving forward. I didn’t see any alternative. And as a result, I sank into what I can only describe as my own death spiral. Lots of cigs, lots of booze, lots of work, all to drown out the voices in my head telling me “maybe this isn’t a good idea.” I didn’t allow myself to MOURN then. To feel sad, to feel loss, and to work it out constructively and communally. Now, a year later, I’m finally allowing myself to feel those emotions about both of those things. Finally crawling out of that death spiral. Mourning isn’t weakness, nor is grief. Just…if you haven’t properly mourned something, anything, I recommend allowing yourself to. Keeping something like that inside, no matter how compartmentalized it may be, is a bad idea.

@haydenaugust

Mar 8, 2025

Top Recs from @taterhole

🧸

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

🏄

SURFING THE TIDES OF THE EVERYONE TAB

I am a woman of the people

@taterhole

May 28, 2025

🖐

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