oh good i’ve been awake for 5 hours and now my eyes are ticking to the clock and my brain has still not activated the synapses that care if i’m late for work jesus fucking thursday
nothing in the world sketches out the word “content” more wholly than cold rain, an open window and a warm blanket.
It’s late April, mid-spring, and I’m still reading about the ice on Lake Michigan.
My heart breaks because I love it and I’m leaving it,
I don’t plan to spend another winter here.
I’ll have to leave the country to get more north than here
and I don’t know why I crave it, but I do.
The silence of winter is fragile and personal.
Summer is a shared thing. Summer is assertive,
you lean against each other, tilting your face into the sun.
T-shirts and open postures, I wipe the sweat from my neck, and it is still freezing.
I live my life in limbo. Is that why I hate the south?
Everything grows so hard and fast and green;
I bite my lip and swallow, and I am always the same.
I like it when things are frozen and grey, and I am the only thing moving.
Impotence haunts me. The ice cracks and I feel like a catalyst,
like I belong.
Descriptions become eulogies, blend together.
I am this and I did this and I’m in this;
I reach out and I collapse against the city,
apologies always breaking on my lips.
People being angry about ~dem gays~ on Target’s Facebook.
I just want to give my two cents on this and tell you a story.
A couple weeks ago, I was hired at Target. I have a job at Target. Not a big deal right?
It is a big deal because i’m a transman.
It doesn’t take a genius to conclude that it’s hard for me, my brothers, and sisters to get a job. There are legal restraints regarding the job and if you don’t pass, it’s hard to be taken seriously at a job interview.
Right on the application, it asks what your preferred name is. It also asks if there is anything that target should know. I put the fact that I am a transman, expecting not to get a call because usually when you put that down, people will throw out the application. I got TWO interviews.
At the interview, they asked me about it. I told them I am on hormones and they told me that they didn’t care. Not in the sense that they don’t emotionally care, but that it didn’t matter. I was male and that’s all that mattered. They also told me that they give sex same couples benefits in states that do not recognize them as a married couple.
At my job orientation, I was not misgendered once. Even my supervisors who weren’t sure of my gender avoided pronoun use, which I found only happens when you’ve had pronoun training. They gave me a name tag with my preferred name and didn’t ask questions. I felt safe and respected, which is huge for a trans* person.
TLDR: Target is amazing not just for the LGB, but also the T. Shop there for the rest of your life.
dear milwaukee why is my nearest targest 2 hr bus ride away
Maggie remembers the war.
This calls for a #DogsOfCracked cute-off. Briscoe says take this:
And Christina H’s pooch Frobolome enters the rumble…
This is Stormageddon “Craig” Harrison, and he likes to party.
All you motherfuckers brought “sweet” to a Cute Fight.
That was taken after a trip to the dog park, which we take EVERY SINGLE MORNING, even when I’m hungover, which is LOTS. He plays with his dog-friends and if no one else is there, we do WIND SPRINTS to keep us both SHARP. I am Dog Mom Supreme.
Neutrino wonders at the disproportionate number of non-cats among Cracked writers’ pets. I mean we’re meant to be working on the internet.
This is my plant. I don’t know what kind it is. It gets too much sun, or not enough or something. Anyway, it’s dying, but in a cute way.
This is my t-rex. I gave him a cape and a hammer and named him Tyrannothorus. He is the tyrant lizard king of thunder and lightning.
So a bunch of us are on Tumblr and sometimes we post cute dog/cat/plant/Tyrannothorus pics.
something utterly magical happened on my facebook this morning thanks to two of my friends who do not know each other
You want to say Hi to the cute girl on the subway. How will she react? Fortunately, I can tell you with some certainty, because she’s already sending messages to you. Looking out the window, reading a book, working on a computer, arms folded across chest, body away from you = do not disturb. So, y’know, don’t disturb her. Really. Even to say that you like her hair, shoes, or book. A compliment is not always a reason for women to smile and say thank you. You are a threat, remember? You are Schrödinger’s Rapist. Don’t assume that whatever you have to say will win her over with charm or flattery. Believe what she’s signaling, and back off.
If you speak, and she responds in a monosyllabic way without looking at you, she’s saying, “I don’t want to be rude, but please leave me alone.” You don’t know why. It could be “Please leave me alone because I am trying to memorize Beowulf.” It could be “Please leave me alone because you are a scary, scary man with breath like a water buffalo.” It could be “Please leave me alone because I am planning my assassination of a major geopolitical figure and I will have to kill you if you are able to recognize me and blow my cover.”
On the other hand, if she is turned towards you, making eye contact, and she responds in a friendly and talkative manner when you speak to her, you are getting a green light. You can continue the conversation until you start getting signals to back off.
The fourth point: If you fail to respect what women say, you label yourself a problem.
There’s a man with whom I went out on a single date—afternoon coffee, for one hour by the clock—on July 25th. In the two days after the date, he sent me about fifteen e-mails, scolding me for non-responsiveness. I e-mailed him back, saying, “Look, this is a disproportionate response to a single date. You are making me uncomfortable. Do not contact me again.” It is now October 7th. Does he still e-mail?
Yeah. He does. About every two weeks.
This man scores higher on the threat level scale than Man with the Cockroach Tattoos. (Who, after all, is guilty of nothing more than terrifying bad taste.) You see, Mr. E-mail has made it clear that he ignores what I say when he wants something from me. Now, I don’t know if he is an actual rapist, and I sincerely hope he’s not. But he is certainly Schrödinger’s Rapist, and this particular Schrödinger’s Rapist has a probability ratio greater than one in sixty. Because a man who ignores a woman’s NO in a non-sexual setting is more likely to ignore NO in a sexual setting, as well.
So if you speak to a woman who is otherwise occupied, you’re sending a subtle message. It is that your desire to interact trumps her right to be left alone. If you pursue a conversation when she’s tried to cut it off, you send a message. It is that your desire to speak trumps her right to be left alone. And each of those messages indicates that you believe your desires are a legitimate reason to override her rights.
For women, who are watching you very closely to determine how much of a threat you are, this is an important piece of data.
an excerpt from Phaedra Starling’s “Schrödinger’s Rapist: or a guy’s guide to approaching strange women without being maced” (via lostgrrrls)
HOLY FUCK THE TRUTH.
Can every one of my male followers read this? And please, before you get defensive (“I would never rape anyone!”) keep in mind, women being afraid of Shrodinger’s Rapists (oh my god i still can’t get over the encompassing brilliance of this phrase) is a conditioned, learned response from being immersed in rape culture and the evolution of sexism and sexual violence in our society from the day we’re born. And unfortunately, it’s very difficult to unlearn without the efforts of all genders to dismantle it. Which is where you come in.
It’s also just rude and disrespectful to patently ignore what someone has told you regarding their personal space, body, and time. Get a clue.
I will always reblog this. Always.
Nathan Fillion is not appreciated enough.
MOST CHARMING MAN IN NORTH AMERICA
I look askance at big blocks of prose. Those are places where attention wanders and the reader’s excitement begins to cool. I don’t care how good a sentence might be… we’ve got to keep moving. Hemingway said kill your darlings, but I try not to have darlings at all, and kill at will.
This is probably not terribly helpful. But I guess try and find one sentence in every paragraph that says the thing the reader needs to know to get to the next paragraph. Then see about deleting everything else. Maybe you can’t delete everything else. But you’d be shocked at how much can go.
There were a lot of sentences in Max Berry’s LEXICON that gave me an electric shock of pleasure. One was just: “A thin dog scratched in the dirt.” That was enough to show me a whole dusty, sandy, barren landscape of trailers, cars on cinder blocks, empty sidewalks, loneliness. One little sentence that carried a whole widescreen picture.
Try and find that thin dog, and skip everything else.