a W-I-P

those three words

I am so cool with my name being on this. “Let it slide” is my new everything in life. That, and “Lube! There it is!”

A story in a chart. Read it as you please. The pleasing thing is it reads you too. 

(Via Brandi Wells)

Via

Overheard on Nostrand

Man 1: I’m finally starting to feel like we know what we’re doing. Like, every two years has gotten a little bit easier.

Man 2: We know what we need now. We don’t have to spend as much time figuring it out. Like we just do what needs to be done.

Man 1: It took a long time though.

Man 2: We’ve been doing this nine years.

Man 1: It’s just started to feel like it’s working.

On Pinterest

 

What I Don’t Like About Pinterest

1) That after decades of force-fed third-party “thinspiration”, women are now perpetuating it via their own means, with their own Photoshop/tech skills, on their own time. 

2) That it’s no longer enough to call out “the media” for perpetuating such a suffocating ideal, because we are “the media”.

3) That its critics are using it to further divide and partition the Internet into a gendered place, i.e. a place where women have a lesser value excluding their consumer value.

4) Consumerism > Idealism. 

5) That I still look at it. 

ilovecharts:

How Rush Limbaugh Understands Birth Control by Gillian Hemme

A Love(ly) Story

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Yesterday I took myself into lower Manhattan so that I could see buildings and water at the same time. Something about the combination of ships and skyscrapers calms me. Other people too, from the busfuls of tourists being dropped off here. I get it. It’s a nice balsamy contrast to all the plastic and glass. Here, gritty waterfronts that once served as sites for fishmongering are turned into mild Disney-fied attractions. Gift shops filled with ye olde curiosities and pirate swords bob alongside sand-filled bars that seem to belong nowhere in particular but for the opposite coast. The placement of a bar named after the Pacific here in the most gargantuan Atlantic harbor city is strange, but I also know what about it makes so much sense.

I took myself there yesterday so that I could feel small in comparison. So that my scale would reflect to a degree the reality which my life more or less resides in. I spend most of my time in my apartment. It’s where I work, eat, host friends, write, and sleep. My apartment is small, maybe not exactly tiny, but small enough that a handstand would be difficult, a cartwheel next to impossible. This makes me feel very big. So the little worries and anxieties that blanket my mind throughout the day, long after I’ve gotten out of bed and started work, become big too. The scale of my apartment world is much tinier than real life. And I am disproportionately large there. I went to Battery Park to have my brain re-sized and re-set. After I’d seen enough of the water, I took myself into the lair that I suppose is called the Financial District, or maybe it’s still Battery Park City, I haven’t gotten the geography down yet. I walked down Maiden Lane, a cobblestone street preserved amidst buildings that are anything but quaint. It was lunch hour, people were hurrying in front of me and alongside of me, carrying cell phones and take-out bags, sucking on cigarettes with staid determination before sweeping into whatever pricey chain they’d decided on for that day. I took myself into one of those chains, because I was hungry but also to be honest, because this is a chain I frequented when I was last wearing professional blazers and shoes, when I had one hour to feed myself overpriced, salt-saturated meals over a book or the newspaper. I missed it in a way that seems insignificant, though for some reason difficult to admit to, so maybe not so insignificant. Inside the restaurant, men and women in various blues, blacks, and browns surrounded me, chatting importantly about things that sounded more like filler dialogue from a movie than anything else. Once I’d recited my order for the assembly line of cooks, paid, and had my food in hand, I grabbed a seat at the window so that I would take up as a little space as possible and parties of two could continue with their verbal racquetball. I was eating and watching people pass outside the window, trying to detect the differences in pace or the direction their eyes pointed as they walked, who or what they were occupied with for the tiny period of time in which they were coming in and out of my view. I’m not sure I could pick out much difference between them. But I did notice something more remarkable about these people entering and exiting this small window stage. Maybe it’s not right to say that they looked happy, that might be too much. So, not angry? Content at least. Being that this was the Financial District on a gloomy Tuesday in February (and Valentine’s Day), I’d expected the air to be dense with a middle-of-the-week monotony. But it wasn’t. My Diet Coke bubbled all the way out of the straw into my mouth and down, down, even further. A tear of cilantro got stuck in my back teeth. I bit unknowingly into a fat juicy onion.  The sound of my own chewing stopped and my mouth watered, then my eyes. I didn’t finish my burrito. 

brokelyn:

Who are you sending an extra crafty, DIY Brokelyn Valentine to this year.

“Only the man responsible for some of the best Twitter-ature ever to grace the modern screen. I’d drop my last name for his in a hot minute. Shteyngart, my heart!”

-Karina Briski

brokelyn:

Ladies, for a good man*, look no further than the subway walls.

*a man who appreciates the simple things in life, but has complicated feelings on what constitutes romance.

[via]

Is it bad that this is sort of the cutest handwritten thing I’ve seen in a while??