My grandfather maintains that anyone who still bakes cakes from scratch is an egotistical moron. Who is he/she to see him/herself as superior to decades of research, test kitchens, and food science that all stand behind the great Betty Crocker/Duncan Hines/etc. boxed bake mixes? Elitist bastards, he says. Like you can do better.
Sometimes I feel the same way about psycho pharmacology/prescription drugs. You know… happy pills. Anti-anxiety meds. Hope in a child-proof plastic jar. Just when I’m standing on the threshold of guilt and hesitation (‘it’s the easy way out! I’m treating symptoms, not problems! More herbal tea/deep breathing! Cheater cheater pumpkin eater!’), I remember that this is my life.
And it’s real.
And it’s complicated.
And I’m trying.
And sometimes a girl just has to resort to a motherfucking xanax once in a blue moon and get over herself, you know?
“Books say: she did this because. Life says: she did this. Books are where things are explained to you; life is where things aren’t. I’m not surprised some people prefer books. Books make sense of life. The only problem is that the lives they make sense of are other people’s lives, never your own.”—Geoffrey Braithwaite, narrator of Julian Barnes’ Flaubert’s Parrot (Knopf, 1984), 65. (via enormousair) (via booklover) (via haleyleigh)
“A girl came in the cafe and sat by herself at a table near the window. She was very pretty with a face fresh as a newly minted coin if they minted coins in smooth flesh with rain-freshened skin, and her hair was black as a crow’s wing and cut sharply and diagonally across her cheek. I looked at her and she disturbed me and made me very excited. I wished I could put her in the story, or anywhere, but she had placed herself so she could watch the street and the entry and I knew she was waiting for someone. So I went on writing. The story was writing itself and I was having a hard time keeping up with it. I ordered another rum St. James and I watched the girl whenever I looked up, or when I sharpened the pencil with a pencil sharpener with the shavings curling into a saucer under my drink. I’ve seen you, beauty, and you belong to me now, whoever you are waiting for and if I never see you again, I thought. You belong to me and all Paris belongs to me and I belong to this notebook and this pencil. Then I went back to writing and I entered far into the story and was lost in it. I was writing it now and it was not writing itself and I did not look up nor know anything about the time nor think where I was nor order any more rum St. James. I was tired of rum St. James without thinking about it. Then the story was finished and I was very tired. I read the last paragraph and then I looked up and looked for the girl and she had gone. I hope she’s gone with a good man, I thought. But I felt sad. I closed up the story in the notebook and put it in my inside pocket and I asked the waiter for a dozen portugaises and a half-carafe of the dry white wine they had there. After writing a story I was always empty and both sad and happy, as though I had made love, and I was sure this was a very good story although I would not know truly how good until I read it over the next day.”—Ernest Hemingway, A Moveable Feast (via jorgerodriguez) (via pedrosanchez)
“i wanted to take
your hand and run with you
ourselves down the street to your street
i wanted to laugh aloud
and skip the notes past
the marquee advertising “women
in love” past the record
shop with “The Spirit
In The Dark” past the smoke shop
past the park and no
parking today signs
past the people watching me in
my blue velvet and i don’t remember
what you wore but only that i didn’t want
anything to be wearing you
i wanted to give
myself to the cyclone that is
and let you in the eye of my hurricane and know
the calm before”—
As a Nation, We Must Band Together and Stop Using Smileys
This is my fireside chat. Hello America. I have a matter of grave importance to discuss and the only venue appropriate for it is my little-read and even-less-posted-in blog.
Now, I don’t “take stands” or “believe in anything” normally, but I’m drawing a line in the sand. And then two dots above that line to make “eyes.” And then I’m going to piss all over it.
We all need to stop using smileys. Seriously. It’s gone on long enough. Unless you are a small child or the type of person who punctuates all their hand-written communications (done in purple glitter gel ink) with frequent hand-drawn smiley faces or stickers—in which case, you have bigger problems—there is no excuse.
Stop using smileys. I hate them and they are terrible.
My reasoning for hating smileys—irrational as it may be—is that the writer employing them is either too lazy or has too small a vocabulary to convey the tone he wants using words. Also he’s insulting my intelligence my assuming I won’t “get” that they’re joking without a symbolic command that I should be smiling.
He can be a Nobel Prize winner and selfless humanitarian, but the minute colon meets right-parenthesis I’m writing him off as a brainless clod.
Together we can band together to kill off smileys before 2012.
This entry was posted on Saturday, June 6th, 2009 at 3:00 pm and is filed under Progress.
One of the best parts about living in a major metropolitan area is the simple reality that it’s a lot easier to be a movie hipster. Come to think of it, they’re a lot like music hipsters except instead of White Russians and PBR they drink popcorn butter and spell “theatre” in that pretentious British way. And while you’re off at some kegger tonight, they’ll be one step closer to winning the awards show pool this fall after seeing Adam, a new release this weekend (in limited markets, of course. Suck it, Cowpoke, Indiana.)
“I feel everything crushing me, like I’m in that trash compactor in Star Wars, but I’m not screaming out for help. I just don’t care. C-3PO is an asshole. I’m sick of his attitude and the last thing I want is for him to save me. This is my garbage mess. That fucking robot with his fucking cocky bullshit sarcasm and sideways head motion needs to get off of my fucking back. Let me die in my own garbage.”— Apocalypstick, who I am fairly certain is either a gifted mind-reader or some long-lost soul sibling of mine. Honestly. J’adore.
“I like the stars. It’s the illusion of permanence, I think. I mean, they’re always flaring up and caving in and going out. But from here I can pretend… I can pretend that things last. I can pretend that lives last longer than moments, gods come and gods go. Mortals flicker and flash and fade. Worlds don’t last; and stars and galaxies are transient, fleeting things that twinkle like fireflies and vanish into cold and dust. But I can pretend.”—~ Olethros in Sandman (via gatekeeper) (via fairphantom)
“But to even things out, here is all my weird secret stuff. I have been sexually rejected by not one, but two guys who later went onto Clown College. I get super nervous whenever I hear a vacuum cleaner because when I was a kid, my mom would turn on the vacuum to drown out the sound of her and my dad fighting. Which is why I rarely vacuum my apartment, like, never. I have had three doughnuts so far today. Once in college, I pooped my pants a little bit at a Country Steaks all you can eat buffet and I didn’t leave until I finished my last plate of shrimp. A couple of months ago, I went on a date with my cousin. Wow…I am a mess. There is an 80% chance that in the next election I will tell all my friends I am voting for Barack Obama but I will secretly vote for John McCain. Here’s one, when I was a kid, I used to put on my fanciest nightgown and then I would mix orange soda and cream soda in a champagne glass and I would sit in the dark and watch The Love Boat. Consequently I have some weird sexual fantasy stuff about Gopher from The Love Boat. And I lied. I have had five doughnuts today.”—Liz Lemon, 30 Rock episode 118 “Fireworks” (via suicideblonde)