I suspect that this puffer can speak human language. He seems to do that.
Nothing but the best
"what’s the saddest, most poignant thing u can think of"
"two white people are in love but there are Complications that make it kinda hard"
"visionary. fund the movie"
bonus points if the Complications include making one of the characters chronically ill or disabled for Extra Sad Points
in bathtubs full of
Charles Bukowski (via bittersweetsongs)
Wow bukowski so profound do you also bathe fully clothed you dickhead. “Oohh isn’t it funny that a person will eat when they’re hungry but will duck if you throw an apple at their face”
Unnecessary “fillers” in our speech. I’d rather have “like” than up-talking, though (if we had to choose one, that is). Ewwww, up-talking. Then again, a combination of the two would render me homicidal maniac.
Like, did you ever notice? That, like, the speech patterns people, like, think are stupid? Are, like, commonly associated with, like, women?
And, like, there’s this thing? Where, like, women aren’t supposed to be, like, assertive? So they, like, qualify their speech? Because, like, we’re not supposed to, like, stand by our opinions?
1) humiliate women so they don’t feel qualified to speak authoritatively about anything
2) humiliate women for speaking in such a way that reflects how you treat her
3) laugh, you are superior because you don’t use words like “like.” It isn’t as if being a huge stupid asshole has ever made you worse than a woman who speaks with verbal tics.
The nail. It is hit on the head.
Also ‘like’ is a very clever way to refer to something. ‘They said’ is much more forceful and implies accuracy whereas ‘they were like’ ‘it was like’ ‘i was like’ allows you some leeway in the interpretation.
i like how tumblr always assumes that people are “bullied off tumblr” when their blog is gone without assuming the possibility that they might have just………changed their url
Look around your college classroom, spot the virgins.
See, this seems like a game until you skip over the girl with a short skirt and hair in front of her eyes because you heard last summer that she slept with like nineteen guys. You can’t see her hands, but they’re under the table, pulling a rosary through her fingers as she tries to wash the sin off her. She’s only ever kissed three people in her whole life and they’re all girls. She turned down the wrong guy and he told everyone she’s “a whore.” The label “slut” stuck to the bottom of her shoe and swallowed her up.
But that quiet girl who is always reading probably never touched someone else’s penis, you figure, because you don’t know that she goes home and strips down and pulls on tight black leather, you don’t know she’s got a set of whips that could make any set of knees quiver, you don’t know because she’s proud of what she does but she’s not stupid enough to let anyone know about it. She’s sexy, just not here, not where people judge.
See, the truth is: you have no idea who has lost their virginity, because it doesn’t change you. It doesn’t give you some kind of glow or superpower or stamp on your forehead. You know the feeling of waking up on your birthday and thinking “I don’t feel any older whatsoever”? That’s what maybe they’re all so afraid of you finding out: sex doesn’t change you. Sex doesn’t make you an animal, sex doesn’t suddenly make your relationship a million times more stable or intimate or romantic - it can’t fix what’s broken, although it can make the pain go away for a bit. Sex doesn’t really occur with eighty tea lights and a thick white rug. Sex is ugly and loud and frequently awkward, sex is excellent and breathtaking and when you wake up the next morning, you’re the exact same person. There’s not some magical connection with the person in bed beside you. Believe it or not, pregnancy isn’t some kind of punishment - but practice safe sex, get tested, don’t spread your germs around. They want to tell you, “Sex can ruin you” and I’ve heard that a lot as a little girl, that some boy would join me under my sheets and then dump me four days after, used, unhappy.
But I figured out that I’m not a fucking toy. Letting someone have sex with me is not letting them “use” me, because I’m not an object. My father said the issue lay in the fact “Men are insecure and need to know that they’re the best you ever had,” but I think that’s a steaming crock of absolute-wrong and if I didn’t tell the people I’m with how many others I’d slept beside, there would be literally no way for them to know my number, because I don’t rust, I don’t wear out, I don’t get bruised. I’m not a wilting fruit, I don’t go rotten.
But here’s the thing: some people connect sex and emotion. I don’t personally because I am probably secretly an ice storm in disguise, but I still respect my partner’s desires. If they’re the type to want love and sex to coincide, I let them. I don’t make fun, I don’t pull one-night-stands or friends-with-benefits, because it’s not their “reputation” I’m afraid for: it’s their heart I’m defending.
Here’s the thing: Instead of worrying about people’s “purity” and how it defines them as a person, worry instead about how you can protect other people’s emotions.
Because here’s the thing: look around your room and spot the virgins. Look harder. You can’t tell. Sex doesn’t alter people, it doesn’t make them act in a certain way nor dress in a certain manner. Sex and personality have nothing to do with each other. There’s a reason that virginity doesn’t show on someone’s face: because having sex doesn’t cause you to change.