Reblogged from brennadaugherty
Hey yeah so remember back when we were like #angry at each other or something and you #unfollowed me everywhere and I got #upset and #unfollowed you back? Anyway I don’t want to be #notfollowing you anymore and really want to #follow you but don’t want it to be weird when you get the notification so I’m just asking permission first.
Reblogged from meaghano
something i wrote in '06 that i still find relevant
I sometimes think I majored in English just to spite all the little sons of bitches who made fun of me in elementary school. Maybe this is why I can’t fucking stand it when people ask if English wasn’t my first language.
Example:
“She say—said—yes.”
”She say?? Is English not your first language?”
No, motherfucker, English wasn’t my first language. Occasionally I make minor errors while speaking. Sometimes my sentences completely disintegrate because I temporarily forget how to shape certain words in my mouth. I don’t care if people call me on these mistakes, but those specific words kindle an old flame of shame in me. I know I shouldn’t feel ashamed, shouldn’t ever have felt that way, and that in turn makes me deeply annoyed with both myself and everyone else.
Who cares if I say something incorrectly? I think I paid my fucking dues when I worked hard to correct my accent as a goddamn third-grader, sick of Taylor Fuckface chasing me around at recess every day screaming that he saw me eating snakes for dinner.
I wouldn’t really think of a person’s accent as an accurate representation of his grammar skills, but apparently if you can’t pronounce a ‘th’ sound you are a total fucking barbarian. And it’s really amazing how forgetting to pluralize a word means that you eat snakes for dinner washed down with rat blood.
I especially can’t stand when someone asks this question, usually patronizingly, to a person who is struggling to communicate in English. What are you, the Immigrant Police? Who the fuck do you think you are? Because you were born to English speakers, because you grew up speaking this language, do you think you are inherently superior to people who had to learn it later in life? That it’s your right to speak down to them?
Please. I remember you from language classes in high school and college (where, by the way, I owned your pasty asses). I remember how you struggled to conjugate verbs and learn vocabulary. Most of all, I remember your pitiful accents. It’s hard to learn a new language, especially as an adult. It’s harder when you’re away from home, surrounded by total assholes who probably voted for Bush.
And you wonder why I’m not impressed when you “can say ‘I love you’ in Korean!” Or when you spend long minutes alternating between trying to pronounce my middle name and making fun of it. It’s not a party trick. It is my name and it’s lovely. It sounds lovely, and it means something beautiful. It’s the first thing my dad ever gave to me— he chose it, he thought of it for me, because he’s my dad and he’s always loved me. If you can’t understand that, then it doesn’t belong in your mouth.
I didn’t learn English first, but it’s my language now. You might know some basic rules of English grammar, but you don’t know the important things. You don’t know about decency and treating other people like they’re people despite a language barrier. You don’t know that people are still people no matter how broken their English is. And I pity you for it. I pity you for talking down to my mom in stores and for shaming old, foreign people on the bus. You are pitiful.
There is always that one person you love who becomes that definition. It usually happens retrospectively, but it always happens eventually. This is the person who unknowingly sets the template for what you will always love about other people, even if some of those lovable qualities are self-destructive and unreasonable. You will remember having conversations with this person that never actually happened. This is because the individual who embodies your personal definition does not really exist. The person is real, and the feelings are real — but you create the context. The person who defines your understanding of love is not inherently different than anyone else, and they’re often just the person you happen to meet the first time you really, really want to love someone. But that person still wins. They win, and you lose. Because for the rest of your life, they will control how you feel about everyone else.
— C. Klosterman (via caryrandolph)
Reblogged from caryrandolph
Male mid-life crisis blah blah blah. →
Besides the many, many ways in which this article is offensive to men, women, and anyone with a brain, this sentence stood out to me:
Outside the office, these women use their type A careerist energy to become multitasking machines—they run the board of their favorite charities, challenge their men on the ski slopes, have a healthy post-Cosmo attitude toward threesomes, decorate to Martha Stewart’s standards, make steak chili on game day, and, while dishing it out, present a solid case for why the Steelers should go for it at fourth and one.
Ladies, in order to be the perfect female, not only do you have to be professionally and physically successful, but you also have to be knowledgeable about football and have a healthy attitude towards threesomes. That one phrase caused INTENSE anger in me. Because you know, if you’re not interested in having another person in your bedroom, obviously you are UNhealthy and something is seriously wrong with you. Forget freedom of choice and making your own decisions about your own body, you big prude. Of course, that third party will be a female, preferably one your guy is attracted to, preferably one of your good friends.
All this from a women’s magazine. Barf. -M
I kind of ignored the parts about women and threesomes and focused instead on the whole, ‘men aren’t settling down because they really don’t have to, and hey, they really don’t want to’ message. Which I get. That’s cool. If I were a guy, I’d be right there with you.
Instead, I’m a female who would like to have kids one day. And I would prefer to have healthy kids, which, studies have shown, the chances of having a child with special needs go up every year after 30.
I can’t wait for this crap to level out - this men vs women pay grades and games played and feminism vs whatever the opposite of feminism is and so on…
Reblogged from mandalay
Paying taxes is like going to the zoo. Admission is twenty bucks. You can’t walk in and go, “Here’s $18.50. I don’t like zebras.
— Jon Stewart, demolishing the rationale behind the Stupak Amendment. (via alcaniglia: absurdlakefront: apsies) (via lizlemon)
Reblogged from alcaniglia
Reblogged from pie0
(via deadendgoogles)
AAAAAAAAaahahahahahahahaha. Ahhhhhhhhhahahaahahaha.
(dies)
Reblogged from deadendgoogles
