Knock-knock, beats the hand at her door. The girl sighs and remains seated on the couch. It is Saturday night, her roommates are out, and she wants only to slurp reheated ramen while watching Buffy battle hell-demons on Netflix. She is alone, but she is not lonely. The knocking continues. Buffy roundhouse kicks a vampire in the chin. Still, the girl does not rise; she simply shifts her weight from one couch cushion to the next. As Buffy is in mid-jump, arm raised, stake poised above the vampire’s chest, the girl pauses the screen and moves towards the kitchen. She is placing her bowl of ramen in the microwave when the knocking starts again. “Who’s there?” she finally calls. But the knocker does not seem to hear her, no reply comes. The microwave beeps hurriedly, and she returns to the couch. Buffy stakes the vampire, his body quickly reduces to dust. The sound of footsteps dissolve down the hallway, away from the girl’s apartment, and the knocking stops. She does not wonder about it again. Doesn’t even think to mention it the next morning when her roommate asks her about her night.
Guys, I feel really really strongly about Broad City - like, texting my friends all caps messages in the middle of a beautiful Sunday like, “STOP WHAT YOU ARE DOING AND WATCH BROAD CITY RIGHT NOW IT IS THE BEST!!!!” (insert high-five white girl with bangs emoji) strongly.
I’m meeting boys who like Charles Bukowski and they all want to do brutal things to my body. They tell me they buy a bottle of whiskey whenever they get one of his books and don’t stop reading till they’ve gone through a pack of cigarettes. They blow smoke in my face and say, “He was the outcast king of L.A. Did you know that, huh?” “Yeah, yeah, I know.” I say. “He’s great.”
A boy gives me a worn copy of On the Road and thinks he’s being original. “We should explore the road together. Would you like that, baby?” I take a sip of my water and look away. Yes, I’d like that, I think. But he’s drunk and imagining himself sixty years earlier, in the back of a bar, sweating to the sound of live bop. Still, I prefer him to the hungry boy that devoured my shirt and said, “You have a tattoo? What’s it say?” ‘mad to live?’ What, are you angry about living? Aw, I’m just kidding, come here, let me take off that bra.”
The next boy I kiss doesn’t read. I ask him to come to a bookstore with me and he stays outside, sighing. He has no interest in words. He has no interest in me. I am thankful for him. For a few weeks, I am able to shed my habit of thinking obsessively and become a duller, rougher version of myself. I dump him when my fingers start turning imaginary pages in my sleep.
I go on a date with a boy who knows I like to write. He calls himself a fan of mine and swears he’s read every word I’ve put down. “You’ve got this voice that’s very modern, but also so classic.” I choke on my water as he says, “I read you to fall asleep.” I listen to him pant metaphors and compare my mouth to the sea. One day, he stumbles across my journal, and finds nothing about himself in it. “You don’t really love me, do you?” I shake my head. There is no use pretending anymore. He has read my poems about the boys I want to drown in me. His goodbye leaves my hands covers in ink. He wanted me so badly to be the sea, when all I am is a girl who writes poetry.
I try my best to become poetry. I take a bath and stain the water with black ink. I cut my hair in a motel sink. I cry for people I have never met. I start smoking cigarettes. I use words like “presumptuously” and talk about “post-modernist new wave.” I walk the streets at 4 a.m. and smile at people coming home from a rave. I wear sunglasses indoors. I carry a 500 page volume of poems wherever I go. I drink coffee instead of water. I talk about the “advantages of using film and listening to records.” But no matter how hard I try, I am not the sea. I am a sunken ship that has drowned in everyone who touched me.
Is there a schedule for your bike riding class? Also - do you need to have a bike with you or are they provided? I just booked a trip to Barcelona and had the paralyzing fear that some handsome stranger could ask me to go on a bike riding trip and I’ll have to say no because I’m 29 years old and don’t know how to ride a bike!
You don’t get to pick and choose which labor movement you want to support. Especially when you don’t give two shits about the actual issues in the case.
The NFL has made a considerable amount of money exploiting its workers, and the workers have, for most of the NFL’s existence, seen a tiny fraction of that profit. There was a time before free agency where the majority of NFL players didn’t even make the 1973 equivalent of “millions of dollars.”
The NFL has also spent a considerable amount of time and effort dismissing any report on the long term health risks of the job. So these guys spend a good portion of their life playing a sport that is slowly killing them, then spending a considerable amount of their money fighting lingering health injuries until their early deaths.
there are real issues here, real issues that reflect back on the wider public labor movement. Dismissing these issues is stupid, because this is going to be the most visible labor fight in the media for the foreseeable future.
My friend died yesterday after battling cancer for a little over a month and out of all of the enormous feelings that come with that the one I’m having the easiest time accessing is fucking anger at George R.R. Martin for the fact that Chris will never know how A Song of Ice and Fire ends. Obviously that’s just one of the things that isn’t fair about a man in his 30s dying, but that’s what I’m grasping on to right now.
If Judge William H. Pauley III is right, advocates of extensive monitoring by the government have a strong case. But the Khalid al-Mihdhar calls tell a different story about why the bureau failed to prevent the catastrophe. The C.I.A. withheld crucial intelligence from the F.B.I., which has the ultimate authority to investigate terrorism in the U.S. and attacks on Americans abroad.