singing ain't this life so sweet

Oops.

victoryjobs:

I’M IN NEW ORLEANS RIGHT NOW AND SOME DUMBASS WAS TRYING TO GO THE WRONG WAY DOWN A ONE WAY

AND WE WERE LITERALLY YELLING AT HIM “DUDE WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING IT’S A ONE WAY ASSHOLE”

AND HE ROLLED DOWN HIS WINDOW TO ASK FOR HELP

IT WAS MOTHERFUCKING JESSE EISENBERG

“I just need to get into that parking lot right there can you please let me in”

AND WE DID AND I WAS JUST LIKE

STARING AT HIM WITH MY MOUTH HANGING OPEN

AND AS HE DROVE AWAY ONE OF MY FRIENDS WAS LIKE “OH MY GOD YOU’RE THE GUY FROM THE SOCIAL NETWORK”

BUT IT WAS TOO LATE

AND I HAD FORGOTTEN HOW TO WORDS

MORAL OF THE STORY: I CALLED JESSE EISENBERG AN ASSHOLE TO HIS FACE OH MY GOD HAHAHANAIXKSOZAOOXENZP$37:@1!

seriously i cannot her voice

neil-gaiman:

 ”Well, when I changed schools, when I was a kid, my Dad made a point of telling me how much he had always looked forward to Presidents’ Day, when he was a boy, because it’s the law that on Presidents’ Day, the kids who go to school dressed as their favourite presidents get a big bag of candy.”

“Oh. That’s a nice law,” said Rosie. “I wish we had something like that in England.”  Rosie had never been out of the UK, if you didn’t count a Club 18-30 holiday to an island in, she was fairly certain, the Mediterranean.  She had warm brown eyes and a good heart, even if geography was not her strongest suit.

“It’s not a nice law,” said Fat Charlie. “It’s not a law at all. He made it up.  Most states don’t even have school on Presidents Day, and even for the ones that do, there is no tradition of going to school on Presidents’ Day dressed as your favourite president. Kids dressed as presidents do not get big bags of candy by an Act of Congress, nor is your popularity in the years ahead, all through middle school and high school, decided entirely by which president you decided to dress as - the average kids dress as the obvious presidents, the Lincolns and Washingtons and Jeffersons, but the ones who would become popular, they dressed as John Quincy Adams or Warren Gamaliel Harding, or someone like that. And it’s bad luck to talk about it before the day. Or rather it isn’t, but he said it was.”

“Boys and girls dress up as presidents?”

“Oh yes. Boys and girls. So I spent the week before Presidents’ Day reading everything there was to read about presidents in the World Book Encyclopedia, trying to choose the right one.”

“Didn’t you ever suspect that he was pulling your leg?”

Fat Charlie shook his head. “It’s not something you think about, when my dad starts to work you over. He’s the finest liar you’ll ever meet. He’s convincing.”

Rosie took a sip of her Chardonnay. “So which President did you go to school as?”

“Taft. He was the  27th president. I wore a brown suit my father had found somewhere, with the legs all rolled up and a pillow stuffed down the front. I had a painted-on moustache. My dad took me to school himself that day. I walked in so proudly. The other kids just screamed and pointed, and somewhere in there I locked myself in a cubicle in the boys’ room and cried. They wouldn’t let me go home to change. I went through the day like that. It was Hell.”

“You should have made something up,” said Rosie. “You were going to a costume party afterwards or something. Or just told them the truth.”

“Yeah,” said Fat Charlie meaningfully and gloomily, remembering.

“What did your dad say, when you got home?”

“Oh, he hooted with laughter. Chuckled and chortled and, and chittered and all that. Then he told me that maybe they didn’t do that Presidents’ Day stuff any more. Now, why didn’t we go down to the beach together and look for mermaids?”

From ANANSI BOYS. By some British Guy.

So I can’t decide whether I am having a sudden mass attack of not-so-seasonal allergies, or if those allergies my dad thought he was having was really cold and he gave it to me.

EITHER WAY, MY NOSE IS GOING TO FALL OFF, AND MY HEAD IS GOING TO BLOW UP. MAYBE NOT IN THAT PARTICULAR ORDER.

Lol, my dad doesn’t know about this theory, yet. I just blamed him anyway.

WHY

BEST SHOW OR BEST SHOW

THESPIS

THESPIS IS MY FAVORITE

ALL OF THE FEELINGS ABOUT DAN AND CASEY AND CASEY CALLING HIM DANNY AND TURNING DOWN THAT THING FOR HIM AND JUST

GAH

ALSO IT’S A TWENTY-FOUR POUND TURKEY, NOT A TWENTY-POUND TURKEY

AND NOW I’M GOING TO CHECK IF THE WHOLE THESPIS THING IS REALLY A THING

gingerhaze:

White Collar is the story of an adorable couple that adopts a con man and raises him as their own. Together, they fight crime!

You don’t see all that’s there,

everything around you.

You describe eyes as empty,

faces as masks.

But just because you’re blind,

doesn’t mean it’s all blank.

Faces aren’t masks, silly;

they’re windows.

it’s like the opposite of The West Wing

thepostgrad:

You are the college activist. 

Yes 
Shining, burning bright
In a world you once perceived as innocent
Now spitting hot fire over bullhorns and human mics
You light up this campus.

You are the college activist.
Your fingertips smell of Sharpie ink
From making campaign and protest signs 
While kneeling on cold pavement and carpet
Stomach growling because it is 3 AM
And you just heard about this issue today.

Suddenly…
It’s the most important thing in the world to you.  

You are the college activist.
Who braves the humanities 
Knowing that in the long run 
Money is not a blessing
Nor will it bring the comforts of a 401k. 
There is a reason
Why so many of us
After college
Joke about living in cardboard condos.

You are the college activist.
After performing so many times at open mics,
Your everyday speech has now mutated
To have an inherent rhythm and flow
Imitations of June Jordan’s voice. 

It simply pours out of you. 
Like leaky faucets or poorly bandaged shotgun wounds. 

Even when you order a god damned pizza,
Or talk about the weather,
Your inflection switches 
And your dead ancestors give you spectral snaps  
To the way you pronounce “pepperoni” so skillfully.

Your voice is verbal Viagra to limp minds and soft souls. 

You are the college activist. 
You’ve gone organic, raw, and vegan. 
You bike and walk everywhere. 
You only drink free-trade coffee and buy locally.  

You wore a shemagh. Then someone called you out on it. 
You wear Nike dunks. You still wear them after someone called you out on it. 

You bought those “Navajo” sweaters from Urban Outfitters.
Even though you fight for indigenous issues. 
You’re the exact person who call out white people for wearing feathers. 

You dress like a hipster. 
You deny it.  

You went to American Apparel, bought t-shirts, and used them for printing your queer conference shirts.  

You are the college activist. 
It is your fifth year.

You are the college activist.
You cringe at the very idea of binary identifiers
And try to explain that everything requires context
Yet
The minute context is being explained from those who oppose your views 
You recall “Isang bagsak!”
And let all of those words fall on deaf ears.

They are the college activists!
 
You do not identify with these people
Who seemingly aren’t as radical as you
Or progressive as you
Or don’t go to the same community meetings as you.

You skip out on townhalls because things have become bitter.
No longer are you an intern, core member, or staff. 
But simply someone who floats around
Waiting for new blood to step into your well worn shoes.
You smile as transition ends…

“Good luck. You’ll need it.”
Soon enough, they’ll hate calendaring,
Cross-coalition building,
And the way the room spins and splatters 
When the shit-talking begins.   

Your time is split now between cultural shows,
Overnight outreach programs,
Senate meetings,
And classes.

In exactly this order of time commitment and priority. 

You.
Are.
Fucking.
Exhausted.

Your hair smells of phosphorus
Your body famished. A torso made of wood
Tightly bound by iPod headphone chords
I see you drifting in and out of consciousness,
A green fog drifting from your lips.

But, you are the college activist. 
You fight for what you love.
And despite the contradictions
The slurry of confusion, passion, and hate… 

There’s respect for someone like that: 
An average person working towards something great.