right now, all i want is just one week of happiness.
always, my “if found” reward = “a million fucks.” hmpf.
i am feeling damn near impossible. whatever that means.
so:
- called into work
- ate baked goods w/chocolate
- wrote email to my sissy
- freaked my partner out
- and will force her to watch Titanic with me
uguys, devendra banhart’s video for “foolin’” … ….?
i thought that The Sing-Off was a weird Canadian show
—
Yes, Geoff Nunberg could’ve picked “vuvuzela” or “refudiate” as his word of the year, but instead he’s going with the timeless classic, “no.” Geoff gives an explanation of his logic regarding all the no’s that’ve happened this year and wraps it up this way:
“No” has a great power to bring people together, precisely because it doesn’t have to be pinned down. A child has a much harder time mastering “yes,” which is always the response to a specific prospect — “Do you need to go potty?” Whereas the child’s first “no” comes earlier, as a pure eruption of willful refusal. And the word retains that capacity, even as we learn to intone it to convey despair, anger, defiance, fear, astonishment, disappointment or resignation.
No buts about it.
(via npr)
1 begin to write a story on cell phone
2 feed the kitties
3 listen to Adele
(via capucha)
i want so much more. i do.
A student protester stands on a barrier in Parliament Square on December 9, 2010 in London, England. Parliament was voting on whether to implement the coalition Government’s proposals to increase university tuition fees in England from 3,290 GBP to 9,000 GBP. (Oli Scarff/Getty Images)
you sit down and you write the most beautiful things you can think up. and these beautiful things grow and grow. then, you find someone else who thinks these things are beautiful, and they give you a book deal, if you’re lucky. but, that’s for another class. and so, they put a lot of money down, melt down trees, print pages and pages of your beautiful stuff. then, one day, these books stop moving. then, you’ve got 10,000 books in a warehouse. after thirty years, you know what happens? that warehouse shuts down. some copies get thrown in fires, into streets, used book stores, shredded, melted down. some, even, get processed into cow feed. and that cow will digest your poems. and that cow will… well, it just is damn poetic, isn’t it?
