the itis
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I used to have a shirt like this when I was in middle school. It had Tweety bird on it. I wore it a lot. My friend Brooke will not let me forget this.
Best Day Ever
Someone I am friends with on the facebook has changed her name to Mz’Unique and has started posting all-caps rants about fake-ass bitches who can’t keep it real. I love this.
I think I'm "Ann," the anti-social complainer with a penchant for Salinger and Vonnegut →
I am pretty sure a high school friend and classmate of mine wrote this column about me for her college newspaper. It makes me feel funny hearing now how people viewed who I was then.
Diane Savino, New York State Senator, raddest speech in the world on gay marriage.
via davidpress and robhuebel.
“If there’s anything wrong or any threat to the sanctity of marriage in America, it comes from those of us who have the privilege and the right, and we have abused it for decades.” - Diane Savino
This is the face of my nightmares.
So ... This Just Happened
I am driving home this morning. It’s not foggy, or particularly creepy, this morning, but I am on the lookout for deer and whatnot. I have my brights on because the streets by my house are dark. Now, I don’t live in the country or anything, but the neighbor who lives about a mile down the road - his cows wander into the road a lot - and there are no sidewalks and no streetlights.
So anyway, it’s DARK. A car comes my way, so I turn my brights off, and click them back on as the car passes and my car lurches up the hill near my house. As if out of nowhere, a figure catches in the light. I think it’s an animal. I am wrong. Walking dead center down the middle of the road is a person wrapped in a brown fur coat. The collar is pulled up high, obscuring the face. I gasp, slamming my breaks as the figure slowly sidesteps into the oncoming lane. There are no other cars, the figure does not turn, and I am still unable to catch sight of a face, even as I glance in my rear-view mirror to see the figure return to the middle of the road and then disappear altogether in the pitched night.
When I make it to my driveway, I run to the door, fiddling the key nervously in the lock before bursting in and slamming the door behind me. When I go to wash my face, I face away from the giant picture window as I walk through the living room, because even though it cannot be possible, something tells me that the fur-coated figure will be standing there, its warm breath making foggy circles on the glass.
Like a child peering at a scary movie through the lattice work of my fingers, I sneek a peek at the window out of the corner of my eye. I see nothing but my own reflection.
Journicide: A looming, lost generation of scribes →
(via @missprinted)
“There are no newsrooms today for young journalists,” said Gorov. “They will never have that experience.”
Where does the lack of community and opportunity leave the serious journalist looking to make a name for herself? Often, manning an espresso machine while trying find time to tend a blog, hone a manuscript or tweak a YouTube video.
The starving-artist lifestyle may be colorful and appealing for a while, but it gets old fast if you are bunking on a friend’s sofa, living under the same roof you did in junior high and lying awake at night wondering how you are going to repay your staggering five-figure student loan.
If nothing changes, the next generation of journalists will give up and move on to entirely different pursuits. And you can’t blame them.
How many journalistas do you think will be satisfied having to make ends meet by working as baristas?
Slimy - “Wake Up”
(via @ctscase)
Never forget.
