“Aside from being one of the most idiotic moments in American political history, this marks a level of personal humiliation no previous president has ever been asked to endure.”
—The Washington Post on Racism Is Alive and Well ‘11 (or: Obama Produces Birth Certificate)
April 2011
“I watched the clitectomy scene in Antichrist with a squinted eye through the slit between my index and middle finger, the hey you and fuck you fingers. When she grabbed the scissors, my castration complex kicked in, and I paused the film which was streaming on Netflix, opened a new tab, and wikied the plot, scanning the arial 10pt. for “penis” preceded by the word “cut” or “off”; fortunately — and Freudians n’ Feminists, this is probably too easy — that wasn’t the case. Desire was evil, that nob that never grew into a penis, so she rid of that via the cinematic slow motion blood squirt of a fleshy pearl losing its focus in its assault towards the camera.”
—HTMLGIANT
Firework (Google Translate Cover)
Katy Perry
Google Translate singing “Firework” by Katy Perry.
1462. Full length Hayao Miyazaki movies
SEXUAL
Got some peeps in my house convinced that I pooped in the dryer.
NPR: The Sad, Beautiful Fact That We're All Going To Miss Almost Everything →
npr.org
It’s sad, but it’s also … great, really. Imagine if you’d seen everything good, or if you knew about everything good. Imagine if you really got to all the recordings and books and movies you’re “supposed to see.” Imagine you got through everybody’s list, until everything you hadn’t read didn’t really need reading. That would imply that all the cultural value the world has managed to produce since a glob of primordial ooze first picked up a violin is so tiny and insignificant that a single human being can gobble all of it in one lifetime. That would make us failures, I think.
Play
“If the temperature of the Sun is, as The Effects of Nuclear Weapons estimates it is, about 25 million degrees Fahrenheit, and if five times that amount is 125 million degrees Fahrenheit, and if the temperature at which a human body combusts is 1, 600 degrees Fahrenheit, and if such a blast of heat would reach their bodies, ten miles away from the site of detonation, in approximately four and a half millionths of one second, and if pain impulses in the human body are believe to travel 382 feet per second, and if all of this is shorter than the time it takes to climb by elevator or to climb by foot or to climb inside one’s own private mind above the city’s lights—looking down at them from the stratosphere for one final view—then it is more likely that in the event of a nuclear strike on the nearby National Stockpile, just a few miles away from anyone in Vegas, the minds of most Las Vegas residents would literally not know that they were being destroyed until sixteen hundredths of one second afterward.”
—John D’Agata, About a Mountain (via watchoutchadbites)
"Social Animal" →
newyorker.com
And though history has made us self-conscious in order to enhance our survival prospects, we still have deep impulses to erase the skull lines in our head and become immersed directly in the river. I’ve come to think that flourishing consists of putting yourself in situations in which you lose self-consciousness and become fused with other people, experiences, or tasks. It happens sometimes when you are lost in a hard challenge, or when an artist or a craftsman becomes one with the brush or the tool. It happens sometimes while you’re playing sports, or listening to music or lost in a story, or to some people when they feel enveloped by God’s love. And it happens most when we connect with other people. I’ve come to think that happiness isn’t really produced by conscious accomplishments. Happiness is a measure of how thickly the unconscious parts of our minds are intertwined with other people and with activities. Happiness is determined by how much information and affection flows through us covertly every day and year.
I’m feeling this article. College may not have taught me much in the way of marketable skills—and no, “critical thinking” does not count—but it has introduced me to co-op living and new ways to think about gender and racial equality, both of which will only become more integral to me and my happiness, I fink.
Captured: America in Color from 1939-1943 →
blogs.denverpost.com
“There is a picture of a ‘homesteader’ named Jack Whinery. He’s really handsome. I’d rather do that kind of ‘whinery’ than the kind I’m doing here, you know?
He has two daughters that look like Dakota and Elle fanning and one that looks like Napoleon Dynamite, poor thing. They all look blighted by misery and strain. Like, the wife is absolutely fucking stricken. Look at her eyes. And yet for some reason I felt jealous of them. I could have been the wife of a man like that, maybe. I think it could have been very relieving and I don’t know how to feel about that.”
