My sister, who’s the grandest poop, really embodies the hilarious irony of being younger-yet-bigger, humor drier than that half-inch square on the back of your tongue — like we envision future scenarios for each other, and they reveal the meanest, most informed shit: for me, she imagines a wedding in the backyard of my parents’ house (to save money, room to roast a boar, etc.) and a child named Willow, with the sticks in her hair (but fuck no if I’m naming a kid after a tree it’s gotta be cedar). For her, I imagine a lovely condo and a law degree and a couple of babies totally insidious in nature, surrounded by kittens and mountains of laundry. She’s so terrible; I love her.
14. When was the last time someone of the opposite sex hugged you?
Honestly I think it was themindscanvas on Thursday; Friday was far from hug-free, but they were girlier.
31. 3 random facts
1. I think I’ll make a good parent. I’m torn, however, between producing the environmental hazard that is a brand new child and wanting to experience the biological badassery of becoming a mother.
2. It is totally insane and probably not worth it, but instead of bungee jumping or skydiving I’d rather chase after a tornado.
3. Saw Cap 2 twice already which might mean I’m masochistic.
When we talk about teenagers, we adults often talk with an air of scorn, of expectation for disappointment. And this can make people who are presently teenagers feel very defensive. But what everyone should understand is that none of us are talking to the teenagers that exist now, but talking back to the teenager we ourselves once were – all stupid mistakes and lack of fear, and bodies that hadn’t yet begun to slump into a lasting nothing. Any teenager who exists now is incidental to the potent mix of nostalgia and shame with which we speak to our younger selves.
May we all remember what it was like to be so young. May we remember it factually, and not remember anything that is false, or incorrect. May we all be human – beautiful, stupid, temporal, endless. And as the sun sets, I place my hand upon my heart, feel that it is still beating, and remind myself: Past performance is not a predictor of future results. Stay tuned now for whatever happens next in your life. Goodnight, Night Vale. Goodnight.
Cecil’s closing narration in Episode 12 (via vaginawoolf)
should tuck this into a farewell letter to my students
"In tiny increments since his first encounter with Ian, and at clear risk to his own safety, Mickey has pushed himself further and further past his fear. We are reminded of the time Mickey, returning from a stint in juvenile detention, greeted Ian with a deceptively terse, ‘Missed ya.’ Of Mickey and Ian’s first kiss, hurried and nervous, long after they began meeting for sex. Of the futile, single-word plea – ‘Don’t’ – when Ian told him he was enlisting in the Army. Of Mickey’s hesitant response to a stranger who asked, of his relationship with Ian, ‘Did you guys just meet last night, or are you together?’ Finally, after a pause: ‘Together.’
This, all of this, is what coming out looks like. And this is what Mickey Milkovich’s relevance truly hinges on: not only an acknowledgment of the suffering and self-denial that is still a reality in the lives of many LGBTQ people; but the validation that coming out is not irrelevant or passé or an all-or-nothing game. No matter how small and unwhole these acts of disclosure may seem, they are still brave.”
Book one:a life-affirming story about pretentious teens with superiority complexes who have experiences and give nauseatingly quotable musings on philosophy and what it means to be alive, which often involves their enjoyment of books and tea and their condescending view of the popular kids as sheep
Book two:the same exact story, except this time it's being narrated by the teacher who has to deal with these asshole kids on a daily basis but is legally barred from saying "are you fucking kidding me" when they say some pretentious bullshit about how they prefer the smell of old books to the taste of alcohol. The teacher is re-telling the story to her friend at the bar, and her friend refuses to accept that these children could POSSIBLY be as pretentious as she makes them sound
“Unlike in Kabul or the peaceful north, most citizens here seemed to view the polls as a dangerous imposition—a piece of Western-orchestrated theatre that would be yet another item in the long list of events and factions and policies to be endured.”—Anand Gopal reports from Chak—a narrow valley of mud homes and alfalfa farms that lies some forty miles from Kabul—days before Afghanistan’s upcoming Presidential election: http://nyr.kr/1pEGncH (via newyorker)
sallyfranson: I never write things on here, which is contradictory, because I am a writer and this is my website and when people ask me ‘what do you write?’ I say ‘go to my website!’ But really, what can you get from a CV? None of the good stuff fits on an anxious 10-pt. line. Like when you answered phones for a company that sold disposable grills - like fiery pie pans - and picked foam off catheters used to artificially inseminate pigs and took your clothes off in a painter’s basement for cigarette and takeout money and when your body felt frightened you said oh, be quiet, body, these 35 bucks are surely a fair exchange. Point is, amazing and terrible things happen every day, and maybe I should tell you a few.
Like this morning for example. I had thirty minutes to spare between one thing and another so I ducked into a museum because my astrologist says I need to be fed and maybe art feeds better than, oh, I dunno, obsessively thinking about pants. I walked fast and only stopped at things that grabbed me, which is not how most of us were taught to appreciate art, or at least I wasn’t. You stood from far away. You pretended to GET IT for a couple minutes, even if you were actually thinking about pants. Anyway I blasted around and saw some photos of Siberia and an installation that was like The Incredible Shrinking Apartment Hallway and a picture of men sawing off the tusks of a walrus while it lay, blubbery and humiliated, on the sand.
But then I’d had enough and I had to get to another thing and a 4-yr-old who had to go potty really bad was interfering with the general ennobling atmosphere. But before I did there was this room, and I was alone in it, and it was drenched in sunlight, and surrounded by bamboo tipis I heard a cacophony of voices saying YOU ROCK and MAYBE THAT STUFF IS NOT YOUR FAULT and HAVE SOME PIZZA and IT IS GOING TO BE OKAY. How did you know? I asked them. The guard said what? and I said I am not talking to you. I stood there and listened and when I was full I wrote down the phone number so I could record my own message for other people and when I got to my office I closed the door and sat down in my chair and put my feet up on the windowsill and I said to my phone I am so proud of you and I know you’re scared but it’s the good kind of fear and everything you think is the worst part is the very best part. The phone number is 612-625-5530. I hung up, and went on with my day.
cuntstruck replied to your quote“Better than going to some rocks.”
falsifications replied to your quote“Better than going to some rocks.”
PHD PROGRAM!!!! omg congratssssss
seriosity replied to your quote“Better than going to some rocks.”
Liiiiiisten I’m not going to get into deep dark ruinous places where I reveal how I flunked like a dozen college courses and had to retake dynamics like, four times and wasted a shitton of money and I think I was SUPER depressed at some point, like I don’t even have enough information to go back and self-evaluate if feeling horrible and unmotivated for four solid years was depression???? but I’d just like to say, I can talk about it now, and even talk about it casually, like dusting salt off my fingers or flinging words over my shoulder, a dribble down the chin, but the truth is, this is great news, and I worked hard for it, HOWEVER there will be a time, again, that shit will happen, I will feel shitty, and then something wonderful will happen, I will feel great; the cycle continues. The whole point being, I’m all for the mellow route, where it’s like, I’ll have to pay for this eventually. This is me and Life. But thank you, thanks for feeling something on my behalf, you rock you rock! <3 Come visit!