The shift in colors made rooms feel different, shaded, and the acts inside them, then, seemed slightly off; inconsistencies in my experience of the inconsistencies, equally disorienting and compelling.
At H&M, but it wasn’t in our size because — we really think — people hide the popular-sized love in other sections of the store so they can come back and get it later when it’s on sale.
Yesterday, Amis showed up to my English class unannounced. Here, without commentary, are the remarks he made on the creative process and several suggestions he had for young writers.
Why couldn’t I have just been Blue Ivy, dammit?! I was so close. You know what? Maybe we should just break up. I’ll live inside of you for nine months and then we’ll just go our separate ways. I’ll come out of your vagina, take one look at you, and crawl out of the hospital myself.
At the beginning of the story, a young man is callow, unable to achieve his goals. By the tale’s conclusion, he has surmounted his obstacles and completed his heroic journey. Everyone likes him better, and he gets to do more making out and high-fiving. It all seems very appealing. So when do I get to come of age?
How is it that one man managed to go from doing hard drugs and washing dishes with his hair down to his butt cheeks to essentially being the Crown Prince of all things travel and food?
What you do on a leap day doesn’t count. The people you meet and the experiences you have today aren’t real. If you take a picture of yourself on a leap day, your face will come out looking faded like in that movie The Ring!
1. Live 2. The Who 3. Cake 4. Brand New
You don’t love the idea of them moving on, but you’ve started talking about how miserable their next significant other will be as opposed to thinking you’re going to get back together…
I did not understand how mail worked because I hadn’t sent a letter since the one I wrote to The Goosebumps Fan Club Newsletter in elementary school. I applied to college online; I paid rent and utility bills online; I sent ecards, evites, and emails, but never actual physical mail.
When I experienced that blast from your past called “I’m insaneeeeee, help meeeeee” this afternoon, that picture wasn’t telling the story of a pop star acting crazy for attention. Instead it was showing me a 20-something person who was really overwhelmed and clearly having a nervous breakdown. And today I realized: I’ve been there.
Before there was the CW, we had The WB — a channel that produced much of the teen programming in the late ’90s. Without its existence, the world wouldn’t have been introduced to psychos like Felicity Porter and Dawson Leery, which would’ve been a very sad, no good, terrible thing.
The Impressive Mess has a respectable job and a burgeoning addiction to pretty much every substance and vice known to man. They hold it together in the public eye, but since you have a front row seat to their E! True Hollywood Story you’re aware that their private life is essentially a montage of wanton drug use and causal sex with married strangers.
Jan Berenstain, co-creator of the Berenstain Bears children’s book series, died last Friday of a stroke. Just two days earlier she had been working on two new books with her son, Michael Berenstain, who has been her co-author recently.
I lived in Williamsburg before it was cool to live in Williamsburg. — The Hasidic Jews
When she discovers she has HIV, she embarks on a frantic search around New York City to break the news to her one and only sexual partner. There’s something so simple about her look in this film. It’s youthful and a little sad, just like her character.
Here, in no particular order, the wordsmiths and their craft that should probably not get their rapper license renewed this year.
After the Depression ended, physicians got wind of these businesses and they lobbied Congress to pass a law forbidding farmers to sell medicine. Many Farmacies closed down, but those that remained were transferred to physician-owners thus giving birth to, “Pharmacies.”
I know the conventional wisdom on this, that you find love when you stop looking, and get pregnant when you begin adoption proceedings, and lose weight when you learn to love the crappy body you have. That if you write down the name of your greatest fear and burn it in a smoldering fire spiked with sage, you will be free.
When the doctor showed up he didn’t say anything till after he’d looked in my eyes, then he asked how I felt, which was, other than a little grogginess and the aforementioned throat pain, fine. Then the doctor looked at me steadily and said, “Your girlfriend’s here. Do you want to see her?”
There’s something innately uncomfortable about imagining the inside of your own body. This discomfort is probably connected to a general evolutionary rule that says that seeing the inside of yourself probably means you’re seriously injured or dying, which is a pretty logical maxim, and a legitimate cause for panic. I think we’re also inherently intrigued by accounts of people who’ve mutilated themselves in an attempt to escape a desperate situation — self-surgery.
My grandfather was good friends with Carver during his lifetime. Although they were not able to visit each other often, they wrote to each other extensively. I had heard snippets about their relationship in passing, but had never been presented with any evidentiary support. This, however, has recently changed.
You learn a lot about people and their ability to disengage when you get your heartbroken. But I would venture to say that you learn even more when you break someone else’s heart. That’s when it all becomes clear and you’re finally able to get over that one person who stopped loving you. Because now you know the secret. Now you know how random it all is. It’s a scary truth to realize.
I, perhaps more than anyone, know about your inability to take advice or criticism from somebody other than yourself. Thus, there is nobody better suited for writing you this open letter than me. Why an open letter? Because I am well aware of your need for external validation.
And just when I think we’re reading from two different scripts, our hands meet blindly, neatly. They clasp without hesitation, never questioning for a second that they’re where they belong — these knuckles and joints and nails.
The Oscars are a night of glamour, glitz, and utter boredom. I was particularly dreading them this year since most of my favorites got snubbed (Shailene Woodley in The Descendants, Albert Brooks in Drive, Ryan Gosling’s body in Crazy Stupid Love). But, as they say, the show must go on, so I plopped down on my couch with approximately 3.5 orders of nachos from San Loco and waited to see what steaming pile of crap Hollywood was going to deliver tonight.
Starbucks is basically made for public meltdowns. People will leave you alone and it gives you the chance to sit in a warm place for a long period of time. Plus, the last time this happened, a stranger gave me a cake pop.
I live in Paris, as it happens, but it could be anywhere. I’ve seen it elsewhere. Not only do we have the universal force of advertisements and entertainment showing us exactly what beautiful looks like and how to attain it — with the right amount of time and money, of course — but we get to cross hundreds of women a day who simply embody it.
Now, Hirst is at it again with “The Complete Spot Paintings: 1986-2011,” a simultaneous, international exhibition currently on show at Gagosian, the high-end, New York-based contemporary art gallery with a global footprint. The “Spot” paintings are part of a cycle of works begun in 1986, and though as many as 1500 “Spot” paintings currently exist, they are intended to be an endless cycle.
But the mission of these female-interest publications does not exist unchallenged. In her n+1 article, “So Many Feelings,” writer Molly Fischer broached the question: what happens when female-interest blogs (and all publications for that matter) break with their espoused ideology in favor of being honest?
Tumblr is shutting down blogs that promote self-harm. This means pro-Anorexia, pro-Bulimia, and pro-EDNOS blogs are dunzo.
In case you were wondering, the people that you know who use their Sunday afternoons to do all of their errand running, train for that 5K, bake a soufflé they saw on The Food Network, and finally get started on their novel — those people are not humans…
“If a person grits his teeth and shows real determination, failure is not an option — that’s how winning is done! Believe me when I say we can break this army here, and win just one… for the Gipper.“
For years now the aggravating habit of correcting the mispronunciation of foreign words has been seeping into the realm of acceptable behavior like pus seeping into an infected wound.
Making Skrillex into a font. I really don’t know why it isn’t already — because that’s what I thought it was the first time I heard that word.
Brunch is like an Olympic sport around here. People DO NOT screw around. They brunch and they brunch hard. They see an opportunity for a four-hour meal with friends on a Sunday afternoon and they practically have sex with it. That being said, you wouldn’t be a true New Yorker if you just didn’t show up for brunch one day.
I was jealous every time a classmate broke a limb or changed the color of the bands on their braces. I wanted their apartments, their pets, their magazine subscriptions, their divorced parents, the lunches their divorced parents packed for them.
This was weird and confusing to me: there was a time and place in a fifth-grader’s world where reading was forbidden. And even more weird and confusing was my uncertainty of “how to play” — at least in a manner that seemed inoffensive and similar enough to the ways that I saw other kids doing it.
Post internship, if you run into your old boss, it probably won’t be any different. You may have regularly picked up their lunch and ran too many of their personal errands, but chances are after they wrote you that recommendation they aren’t expected to remember what you look like, let alone say “hi.”
I wore this outfit to my roommate’s 20th birthday party while I was a sophomore at San Francisco State University. In retrospect, everything I wore that year was 85% terrifying but this one takes the (birthday) cake. Red pants? A grey crew neck shirt layered underneath a grey deep V?! Holy homosexual!
As Shadid was about to meet his end via a seizure of the breathing passages, I was rummaging through various bar couches and lost-and-found bins, hoping someone, somewhere, had found this thing and put it aside.
Perhaps a less sad man, or better person, would honor yoga by restraining himself from the exact petty ties of pedestrian vulgarity from which practitioners attempt to escape through this very practice.
It should be noted that in the ‘weirdo’ context, individual is differentiated from “Facebook user who is merely interested in/ wishes to share in the culture in which the mutual friends of yours participate.”
On my way out, I was told I’d been banned from the Arclight for life, which I felt was acceptable, as they charge too much and people talk during the movies anyway. It was more important that I uncover the hidden meaning behind this relationship between Jonathan Safran Foer, Jonathan Franzen and Jonathan Taylor Thomas.
I love the concept of dating. I love courtship, getting to know someone, those first butterfly-filled moments where you’re hyper-aware of everything you do and how they might perceive it, where everything they say is new and exciting…
Sometimes it even means EXCITEMENT which could easily be confused with A BIPOLAR MANIC EPISODE. Here are my findings on my self-imposed personal experiment, and why writing with caps lock on all day makes you a better person.
Do you need a sign-off but don’t want to use such platitudes as the “:)” or the “xoxo“? Why not try the “(!)”? Let’s call it “nudge,” because, really, it acts like such.
I felt soothed by it, my insecurities and rage somehow assuaged by early aughties power pop. As Adam Schlesinger told me that the mother of Stacy “had it going on,” I knew that I also was worthy of being sexed. I felt strangely empowered by his male gaze.
I recently saw a Yankee Candle in Tennessee, which is the final nail in the coffin of “The South Will Rise Again.” If the dependence on northern scented wax has penetrated below the Mason-Dixon line, there will be no stopping this juggernaut. So clearly, they’re doing pretty well, but I have a few suggestions of candle-scents for today’s young person.
I’m paid to analyze the most trivial thoughts and irrelevant events in the lives of complete strangers, and even I don’t care about this. I’d rather watch a Celebrity Rehab marathon than spend another second dealing with the worthless drivel you post in your “updates.”