T time

your password can be anything but it should be random

310 notes

slaughterhouse90210:

“What hurts so bad about youth isn’t the actual butt whippings the world delivers. It’s the stupid hopes playacting like certainties.”― Mary Karr, Lit: A Memoir

slaughterhouse90210:

“What hurts so bad about youth isn’t the actual butt whippings the world delivers. It’s the stupid hopes playacting like certainties.”
― Mary Karr, Lit: A Memoir

0 notes

What Happens to a Homeless Veteran?

Well done, by my friend Tully, on how the VA often falls short:

Jymm’s many idiosyncrasies were also brought up as evidence that he was gravely disabled—for example, his habit of wearing shirts with holes in them and his preference for short shorts. Jymm has never hurt anyone (or himself). Where is the distinction between pathology and personality? When does a person’s preferences in dress and lifestyle stray from the norm—and at what point can we deem those preferences a pathological inability to care for oneself? And is a possibly indefinite incarceration in a drab hospital really an improvement over Jymm living a life of his choosing?

0 notes

Caught in the Crosshairs: the Children at Our Border

"Never mind that Americans have five churches for every immigrant child. Never mind that these same churches spend millions sending their privileged children on brief junkets we call “mission trips,” presumably to reach the very kinds of people who now huddle at our border, begging for help."

0 notes

Longform: Longform Podcast: The 100th Episode

Episode 100 of the Longform Podcast reminded me of how great Ariel Levy’s interview was on Episode 78. This is her, explaining why she wrote about her miscarriage in the New Yorker essay “Thanksgiving in Mongolia” 

"I’m a feminist. And I think that having a baby come out of your vagina on a bathroom floor in Mongolia is real. That’s real. That happened to me, I’m not making that up. That happened. And if you’re not going to write about that then what the hell are you doing, are you a writer? And I think the idea that blood, and birth, and tragedy of a distinctly female nature, you know, that’s real. That’s as real as, you know, I’m gonna go hunting swordfish, whatever, you know what I mean, this is real, that’s what women do, they push human beings out of themselves. That’s intense shit, and it goes wrong a lot. It’s gone wrong for a lot of my friends, it’s gone wrong for me, and that’s part of being a woman. I mean, it doesn’t have to be, some people have better experiences, and some people don’t have children, and that’s all real; but this is my reality, and birth is a lot of women’s reality, and I don’t understand why you wouldn’t write about that, if you were a writer, and you were a feminist, and that was your reality."

40 notes

An impossible Depth

smashfizzle:

I’ve been reading “Tiny Beautiful Things: Advice on Love and Life from Dear Sugar” by Cheryl Strayed on the way too and from work. I’m reading other things too, but this one I read particularly on my commute. It makes me closer to the people around me as I actively hate how close they are to my…

153 notes

Halfway Between Her and Hollywood

roxanegay:

I keep coming back to this place. I stay longer each time. Things are softer each time.

Los Angeles draws me in.

Because the freeways are glittering and hypnotic and chaotic and overwhelming.

Because the sprawl.

Because the streets stretch over incredible distances.

Because not far, there is…

so much

63 notes

jamiatt:

I got really aspirational this weekend, staying with some friends in the Hamptons. I know that I’m never going to own their beautiful house or live in their beautiful town, because I’m a fiction writer and also a single woman. Let’s be real: Neither one of those things pays that well.
But lately I’ve been dreaming I’d like to own a house *somewhere* *someday* whereas never before have I even considered that a dream worth having. I spent so long in the hole I didn’t even know what it was like to be on solid ground. Now I’ve picked myself up and dusted myself off and everything is just flat around me.  I’m standing on steadier legs. The earth beneath me feels safe.
Dreams I had in my twenties were (1) to find a city I could live in for a while and (2) find an apartment I didn’t hate. Dreams I had in my thirties were (1) figure out what I wanted to do with my life and (2) figure out how to keep doing it and pay my bills. Dreams I have in my forties are (1) be the fucking BEST at what I do and (2) be a more loving and open person.
I never dreamed of love because I was too busy figuring out who I was but now I do, I dream of that. I never dreamed of a home of my own because I was too busy just keeping the lights on wherever I was. I never dreamed of acquiring things, I only wanted to see the world. I never dreamed of corporate success because I hungered for a different kind of experience and knowledge.
I still want to see the world and keep learning, I will never stop doing that. Only to put a stake in the ground somewhere, to have a little piece of something that is mine and mine alone no matter what, suddenly appeals to me. A home of my own would probably feel like paradise. I would probably sleep so well there. I would probably sleep like a baby, just born, brand new. And then I could dream of what is next.

jamiatt:

I got really aspirational this weekend, staying with some friends in the Hamptons. I know that I’m never going to own their beautiful house or live in their beautiful town, because I’m a fiction writer and also a single woman. Let’s be real: Neither one of those things pays that well.

But lately I’ve been dreaming I’d like to own a house *somewhere* *someday* whereas never before have I even considered that a dream worth having. I spent so long in the hole I didn’t even know what it was like to be on solid ground. Now I’ve picked myself up and dusted myself off and everything is just flat around me.  I’m standing on steadier legs. The earth beneath me feels safe.

Dreams I had in my twenties were (1) to find a city I could live in for a while and (2) find an apartment I didn’t hate. Dreams I had in my thirties were (1) figure out what I wanted to do with my life and (2) figure out how to keep doing it and pay my bills. Dreams I have in my forties are (1) be the fucking BEST at what I do and (2) be a more loving and open person.

I never dreamed of love because I was too busy figuring out who I was but now I do, I dream of that. I never dreamed of a home of my own because I was too busy just keeping the lights on wherever I was. I never dreamed of acquiring things, I only wanted to see the world. I never dreamed of corporate success because I hungered for a different kind of experience and knowledge.

I still want to see the world and keep learning, I will never stop doing that. Only to put a stake in the ground somewhere, to have a little piece of something that is mine and mine alone no matter what, suddenly appeals to me. A home of my own would probably feel like paradise. I would probably sleep so well there. I would probably sleep like a baby, just born, brand new. And then I could dream of what is next.

818 notes

slaughterhouse90210:

“But after a moment a sense of waste and ruin overcame him. There they were, close together and safe and shut in; yet so chained to their separate destinies that they might as well been half the world apart.” ― Edith Wharton, The Age of Innocence

slaughterhouse90210:

“But after a moment a sense of waste and ruin overcame him. There they were, close together and safe and shut in; yet so chained to their separate destinies that they might as well been half the world apart.”
― Edith Wharton,
The Age of Innocence