“We will also have the ability to run a revised report at no charge if we decide your “true” type is different (yes this test is a little funky in terms of reliability. But we’re post-structuralists, right? So it’s all good.)”—From an email from my therapist.
how can i vibe out this dude in the garage. i already gave him the finger while smiling and sent him a bitchy and vaguely threatening email. i need more! p.s. asking for a friend B-)
I hear that eye contact and making an extended “ughhhhhhhhhhhhhhkdvjfbjgsdjjs” gurgle/moan noise until one runs out out of breath has been known to freak a creep out. At least, my coworker did it years ago to a customer who was creeping on me and he got frightened and left.
About a month ago I got myself a student membership to the Barnes (um, thanks for not asking to see a student ID person working at the ticket desk) because when I walked in for the first time I started crying, and as much as I used to want to be ‘over’ the fetishization of Western modern art, and as little of a fuck as I generally give about Renoir, few places make me feel so many feelings as this place has in the last month during my weekly visits, each focusing on the works in just one room.
But goddamn if the museum visitors aren’t consistently the bougiest museum visitors I have ever seen.
“Despite the vagueness of their positions, the Patriots’ message might be one of the few times in U.S. history that anyone uttered the phrase “White Power” as a rallying cry for racial justice. […] The Patriots’ soon took this message a step further. “The South Will Rise Again,” read one of their early manifestos, accompanied by the caveat, “Only this time in solidarity with our oppressed brothers and sisters.”—From page 74 of Amy Sonnie and James Tracy’s “Hillbilly Nationalists, Urban Race Rebels, and Black Power: Community Organizing in Radical Times”
I’m watching a steady stream of babies in Halloween costumes pass by and am predictably wanting my womb to churn out something as a Halloween monster miracle but I’m also thinking that it’s probably a good idea to like, put that fantasy on hold for a minute while I try to figure out what else I like besides babies.
I just learned about Geography Club, where people make short informative and/or creative presentations on anything very loosely to do with geography/’space,’ e.g. migrating animals, orientalist films, city planning, and Victorian interior design, and I could not be more excited.
I may or may not have spent half of my Saturday trying to win over the little boy who lives upstairs with Halloween decoration crafts.
All I’m saying is that our porch now features a number of construction paper bats, silly face pumpkins, hanging plastic bag and newspaper ball ghosts, and a banner that reads “HAPPY HALLOWEen” because someone wanted to show me that he also knows how to write some lower case letters.
On July 19th, 2009, Scott Loren Moore, one of the lead editors of Trans Bodies/Trans Selves, smacked me around pretty bad. At the time he was my boyfriend, and what occurred on this night was part of a larger pattern of intimate partner abuse. He has consistently sought…
Last night I got outed as having a tumblr in a group of male academics and displayed some signs of embarrassment because, I mean, maybe I have inappropriate if understandable internalized shame about doing this very gendered thing and thinking, like, it’s not Important and furthermore I don’t do anything Important on or off the internet.
But then this guy I am starting to really like, because he seems so genuinely nice and open to everyone and manages to show interest in me at parties even though I don’t publish stuff, who does religion and affect theory, pointed out that more people probably read my blog than read most articles he publishes.
And I said, “Yes. They totally do.”
And remembered that it’s ok to just be obsessed with instances of crying in art.
And start half of my sentences with the word ‘and.’