Thought Catalog

Thought Reel

Beloved Never-Ending Network Stream

Latest Articles

Heightening the aforementioned emotional experiences is the ominous unanswered text message. Perhaps you’re just reaching out as a gesture of thoughtfulness, or perhaps it’s a deeper expression of longing, but whatever it is, if it goes unanswered, it can be, and usually is, quite hurtful.

Setting what is perhaps the world’s record for slowest marathon competitor ever, a 49 year-old British man from Essex finished the London Marathon in 26 days. Of course, this was probably due to fact that the man, former professional footballer, Lloyd Scott, completed the race facedown on a metal sled while dressed in a giant snail costume.

Go to a party and try to find the meanest looking person there. They’ll be on their Blackberry constantly, have a terrible personality, a vague job title, and be surrounded by a large group of people who are clamoring for their attention. Ta-daw! You’ve found someone super famous and important!

I’ve never tried to find love. I’ve never been on a blind date. I’ve never dated anyone for two months without it starting to “get serious.” I’ve never been flat-out rejected. I’ve never been a tease and I’ve never slept with a bad kisser.

People see me, see my veiny, pulsing forehead, almost bursting at the seams with knowledge and cunning that they will never possess and they immediately do everything in their limited power to make me suffer for my gifts.

When the FBI raided Ted Kaczynski‘s remote cabin in the woods of Lincoln, Montana back in 1996, they found “a wealth of bomb components, 40,000 handwritten journal pages that included bomb-making experiments and descriptions of the Unabomber crimes; and one live bomb, ready for mailing.” Since then, Kaczynski has resided at ADX Florence, a supermax prison in Colorado.

For years Oprah has been coasting, getting by on her likeability and her personal history with her viewers rather than anything of substance. Her daily gabfests are less about sharing information or exchanging ideas than they are about wasting an hour with Ms. Winfrey. In that regard, she is more of a modern day Arthur Godfrey than any sort of media messenger leading the way to “living your best life.”

One of the perks of attending liberal arts college is that you’ll usually have a C-list celebrity in your class. Stacey Farber from Degrassi was in one of my writing classes, socialite Olivia Palermo from The City roamed our halls looking confused and expensive, Jesse Eisenberg was in a math class with one of my friends and a real life prince even went to Lang for, like, a day.

The world is ending on May 21st! That’s what all the people hanging around Madison Square Garden have been trying to tell me lately as they block my way to Sbarro a cool indie lunch spot with their neon pamphlets and dramatic sandwich boards and smug yet gravely concerned grins.

In “The Seven” episode of Seinfeld, George tells his fiancée Susan that if they have a child – a boy or a girl – he’d like to name it “Seven,” after Mickey Mantle’s jersey number. Now, in real life, Israeli couple Lior and Vardit Adler are taking after George and naming their new daughter with a quotidian word: “like.” The inspiration for the name comes from the “like” feature on Facebook…

Your flaky friend is allergic to your text messages. They’re fine with everyone else’s but when you text them, they start itching uncontrollably, scream, and throw their phone against the wall. A few hours later when they’ve stopped shaking, they’ll read your text and give you a vague infuriating response.

That’s the big thing that happens when you live at home. You have sex in weird places, and you love your parents more and more, even as they annoy you and stifle you and make you feel twelve again. You see them as people, real people with real feelings and problems and hopes that both are and aren’t related to you.

I wake up in the morning and the first thing I do is reach for my phone; I sift through the notifications; who ‘Likes’ my pictures? Who has replied to me, mentioned me? I am hooked on the feedback drip. Increasingly I feel less sure of myself in real conversations; I can’t read faces. Real people are a blank mirror. I clutch the cold glass brick of my hand in my palm to feel better.

Consider the following fact. You — and everyone you’ve ever known and loved — will die one day. You can read what I just wrote, and even understand and believe it, but it still doesn’t seem real to you. That’s the magic of denial. Denial is better than booze or drugs or even sex.

In order to dress like an Olsen, you have to want to destroy everything that’s beautiful and expensive so it can look distressed and edgy. Buy a Birkin and have your driver run over it ten times with your Range Rover, curse at it, spit on it and punch someone in the face with it.

Siobhan marched over to the farthest corner of the apartment, where darkness seemed to intensify the zoo-like odor. “Here is where I keep the feral ones,” she said, gesturing towards a mass of eyes. Pointing to a figure slinking out of view, she added, “That one I call Osama Bin Falafel.”

My dad won’t openly hate you to your face, but you can be sure that behind your back he disapproves of everything about you. My mother and grandmother, on the other hand, will hate you to your face. They will openly object to your religious background, education level, income, clothing, taste in food and sense of humor.

Four or five people of indiscriminate gender film themselves as they walk through the woods to a cave containing the oldest paintings ever discovered. Werner Herzog is one of the people. Everyone is wearing the same navy blue jumpsuit.

Being beautiful is a burden. People look at a beautiful person and have a wealth of stereotypes at their fingertips. Those who are beautiful try in vain to compensate for the connotations attached to their appearance. In the back of their heads, however, there is always one lingering thought, an oft-spoken phrase: you’re nothing but a pretty face.

Aside from your regular commuters, tourists, and psychopathic naked racists, a new breed of NYC subway riders has been discovered – the aggressive, quite-possibly deranged shoe licking man. So if you’re interested in observing this new species of dude in the wild, just hop on the sole train.

For me, loving you means I don’t want anyone else to have you. I don’t want anyone else to have even a semblance of the intimacy we share… to know about that oddly shaped freckle, to feel a drop of sweat, to feel any intensity together at all, even if I am the keeper of all your secrets, the shoulder you cry on, and the one you are so comfortable with that you’ve abandoned closing the bathroom door.

When compared to life outside the party, the amount of jokes thrown into conversation at parties seems to be disproportionately large. I have noticed – in myself and, basically, everyone – that the behavior that immediately follows a jokey statement in the middle of a conversation is reliable and consistent across demographics.

Having twins can be a joyous experience. Just ask the parents of Mary Kate and Ashley or the boys from Suite Life of Zack and Cody. Sometimes, however, giving birth to twins can go terribly wrong. That’s what happened this past week in China when a migrant farmer gave birth to twin girls who share the same body but have separate heads.

Human beings are obsessed with the physiological act of crying to an extent so broad that our obsession has pervaded all of our media and language subliminally. Whether or not a given medium can induce tears is often, rationally or otherwise, the benchmark of that medium’s quality or its social relevance; for good or for ill tears are often used to define gender roles.

Someone has power over you. They have the ability to make you sublimely happy and they can also make you feel super depressed. You lose slight control over your moods. When you enter a relationship, it’s as if you sign a contract that says, “I give you 70% of my feelings. I acknowledge that you can play with them, make them feel good, and I also acknowledge that you can fucking destroy them.”

Musicians aren’t all the same, but the guys I’d fall for weren’t content to just be musicians. They wanted to be Gods. They had the looks and the talent; and they wanted the world in return. They expected it. They wanted to be idolized, dreamt about, cried over. One girl could never be enough.

If we’ve learned anything about women over the years, it’s that women b’ lovin’ to shop. And shoes. …Women also love shoes. Babies, too; that’s another thing that women love. And the final thing that women b’ lovin’? Falling down in romantic-comedy-type movies. So here’s a montage of that…

If the “hate” category were added to Facebook, chances are you’d have a better picture of the person. Maybe said-person secretly loves Dancing With The Stars or dreamy lead singer Adam, but they also hate (as per their profile page) American Idol, the entire Twilight series, and Eat, Pray, Love, and that’s something I can definitely deal with.

I am drinking, looking around, waiting. I don’t do much approaching, rather I will perch and play scrabble on my phone – waiting for a hot, cute, average, gross, or breathing dude to chat me up. I have a few moves up my sleeve. Like asking someone to light my cigarette. Or freakishly lighting someone’s cigarette who doesn’t even know I’m standing behind them.

It’s super hard to ignore someone in 2011. You have to be a creative genius and a great liar to get out of a hang out session. Since we’ve started dating, I’ve supposedly been swamped with work, been sick with strep throat two times, and have had three gnarly cases of food poisoning.

This was the last photo my camera ever took; this photo symbolised conquest and freedom one second, and then in a blink of an eye and a cruel twist of irony later it caused my relationship with that camera to come to an abrupt end.

“If you wanna be my lover, you gotta get with my friends” – As a girl I remember giggling about this and imagining some kind of mass orgy (yes I was a little pervert), but now I can’t think of a truer thing in the world. You’d be surprised how many guys seem to go out of their way to ignore my friends, or even to bitch about them to me after a first meeting.

Sports Night was a critically-acclaimed, but poorly viewed dramedy that ran on ABC in the late 90s. On the surface, it’s a fictional behind-the-scenes look at what it takes to produce a live television sports show; look closer and you see that the show has very little to do with sports and instead is an unparalleled depiction of reality on television.

Man’s best friend, and his non-sentient lover, are more similar than one would think, subtleties clarified herein for this unnecessary problem. For the purposes of narrative, our real doll and real dog have been named Rosie and Baxter, respectively.

Get in on the -isms. “MDF” or “morte di fame” – for desperate, greedy types – and other such Italian inside jokes will become known to you over the course of time. If you’re planning a (very untraditional, very unItalian) wedding, the amount of family smack talk you’ll endure from all angles will be epic, so know these -isms and use them with the right people when appropriate.

If you loved me, you would be a well-rounded person. Your skills would include but not be limited to: skiing, kayaking, Nutella eating, orgasm giving, being cute all the time, fitting into a size small in Rodarte, having good music taste and, oh yeah, loving me!

After about five days, down to only a few coconuts and with no more fresh water, they started to feel alarmed. Before a week passed they exhausted all of their supplies. Things seemed bleak. There was a large storm, which afforded them some water to drink. They discovered some old coconuts, but they ate those up in no time.

A recent study by the Detroit Regional Workforce Fund revealed that 47% of adult residents in Detroit are ‘functionally illiterate,’ indicating that they’re unable to complete basic tasks such as ordering from a restaurant menu, reading a bus schedule, or comprehending their bills. This is especially surprising as almost the entire sample had completed elementary school, where reading is taught.

It’s this separation from others’ souls that makes the everyday bearable by leaving me unburdened, free of the emotional baggage, real or imaginary (most often both), of others that I choose to carry. This is why I long for the big city. I want to look at strangers all day long, and I want them to remain strangers until I choose otherwise.

The rough and tumble realities of ‘big city living’ is little more than an exhausted trope at this point, but it certainly stands the test of time. Will you screw someone over, if it affords you an opportunity for success? Are you even willing to get exactly what you want? Is it tenacity and strength of will that converts erstwhile hobbyists into real artists?

  1. 1
  2. ...
  3. 1648
  4. 1649
  5. 1650
  6. 1651
  7. 1652
  8. 1653
  9. 1654
  10. ...
  11. 1692