Do people deserve a second chance?
of course! not always a third, though.
Do people deserve a second chance?
My little brother, ladies & gentleman, fighting the good fight on the FB wall of the college he’ll be attending next year.
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Pictures of people who mock me
For years, strangers have made fun of me for being fat. But I got my power back — by turning the camera on them.
This touches on the darkest fear.
this is a post about a dream about not wanting to grow up
I’m at a Doctor Who/Harry Potter convention and I’m in a group contest in which people are traveling through tracks on rafts, a bit like a water ride, and the idea is to push other riders out. Mostly they’re children, and as I look over the edge I see them falling, buffering off the edges, onto ramps, and safely rolling away. At one point, two of the children riding in my raft fall out to the side and I grab both of them. I hold them through a turn and then pull them back up and settle them back into their seats. “No more leaning over the edges,” I tell them. They laugh.
We pass through a tunnel, and as I exit I realize I’m on my stomach, going up a conveyor belt toward a drop-off. There are screens hanging in front of me that are showing the upcoming drop, and an automated voice repeats over the images, “Will you be number one?” I realize I’m out of the raft and alone and perhaps the last one in the contest and I understand that this final section will be the scariest. I look behind me for a way to bail and see that if I stand up, I can walk along the metal edges of the conveyor belt, out of the ride. As I walk back through the tunnel a girl rides up underneath me, passing through my legs and also on her stomach. She is obviously still in the running, turns her head to look at me, and scoffs.
I pass under an arch into a dark space and shout sort of blindly saying that I don’t want to do it. “Get her a mic,” someone says and suddenly the lights go on and I’m standing above a room talking to a man who is also miked. He is yards below me and wearing a headset. My voice is being broadcast and I see myself on video screens.
“What’s going on?” he says.
“I, uh, I don’t want to do it.”
“Why not?”
“Because I never even signed up for it and I don’t care about winning and I just don’t want to do it.”
No one understands, I can tell, but they let me down anyway and I tour around the facilities with the headset man as he leads me to the food court. He tells me about a Lego convention that was held recently at the facilities. “We only ever rent out the place for events of this scale,” he says, motioning out a big window.“The cash is amazing, plus, so many American engineering jobs. And also, the environment.”
I nod enthusiastically and think that I’ve won him over. I find out I got fifth place.
NOOOOOOOOOO
I’m holing myself up tonight in a semi-public workspace that my job has given me access to. It’s a Friday night and I’ve brought a bottle of wine and some food, my laptop and a pair of headphones. I am going to write until I can’t anymore.
There are I think four different offices in this workspace, all of which, of course, are empty, and beautiful. The one I’m in now is dark wood-paneled.
It’s hitting a nerve; I’m reacting in some instinctive way, linking it to a moment in my past, or more likely an amalgam of moments: hibernating in my parents’ room over the summer when it was the only room with AC, holding the key to the honors cottage at Fordham and then just using it after hours to make out, getting snowed in at Michael’s and watching Community for two days, pulling all-nighters in the ETC & the SU & the library lobby.
I suppose it’s a form of nesting, a form of isolated control, certainly a form of solitude. My interactions with spaces are often more evocative than my interactions with people, so I mean, there’s that, and who knows what it means.
Anyway.
my little bro gets it.
Basketball Babes is my favorite game.
(How to play: watch basketball with my brother and look for babes.)
(Source: knicksworld)
BLACK MILK WHAT HAVE YOU DONE
I NEED IT OH GOD I NEEEEEEEEEEED IT
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Webisode-based advertising is really interesting
Does it work? On some level it obviously does, insofar as I saw Joe Lo Truglio at the top of my screen and, knowing it was a Ford ad, actually clicked the “allow audio” button to watch what was a teaser trailer for an advertising campaign.
But do you think it will make anyone actually want to buy Ford? I guess that’s the question of all advertising. It just feels to me like an out-of-touch parent trying really hard. And generally it makes me sad and uncomfortable, for all parties involved.
Like, in what world will someone be like “Did you catch the last episode of the Ford commercial series?” But ideally that’s probably what they’re aiming for, right?
Anyway, back to work.
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“The fabric of politics has always been gossip and jokes and crazy personality stuff and memes," he said, a little angrily. "I mean, Dukakis in the tank, that’s a meme. Political coverage that wants to be solely high-minded is missing huge chunks of the actual interplay of personality and power that is what actually drives things."
Ben Smith & Buzzfeed, getting it done.
(Source: fashionbellus, via laadoracion)
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"By giving props to the contributions of black people, the myth of the Great White Savior gets stripped away and white people like [Victoria] Jackson are now forced to acknowledge that they are not gods; therefore, she is not god-like, meaning that the martyrdom is self-created rather than rooted in fact. [Black History Month] does not indulge in the concept of GWS, so it is seen as a rejection of the GWS and by extension, a rejection of white people, especially those whom consciously or subconsciously believe they are a reflection of the GWS."
Phoebe Robinson talks about the “WHY NO WHITE HISTORY MONTH?!” issue, the problem with the lack of Frederick Douglass in Lincoln (srsly uhh where was he), and other very important things.
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Thought Catalog "Stop Catcalling Me"
The man at the Brooklyn Book Festival who asked me as I stood in line what I was waiting for, and who engaged enough for me to be excited that someone was going to talk about Paul Auster with me, before cutting me off to put his hand on my shoulder, saying that he really liked my dress and that the color was “very sensual.”
Or the man at the Sandy fundraiser who interrupted my dancing to grab my arm and told me to “stop teasing.”
Or the man at the holiday party who asked me about my tattoo and interrupted my description of the DFW speech to tell me it was “sexy” and that he had a “clear idea” of me as a person. (“You like to read, huh?” he said, as if it were the most adorable thing.)
There was a point in my life in which I insisted that I had never really experienced discrimination for being a woman. I believed this. I felt grateful. It takes a while to recognize sexism for what it is when it is so pervasive and so easily dismissed.
