“When we say, “Oh, you don’t look fat! You look lovely!” we are assuring our friends that they are still socially acceptable, that they aren’t one of those fat people.”
Welcome to a new intermittent King of States! series, “Things That Are Stuck in My Craw.”*
First, the Setup!
A cop pulls the trigger of his gun. The bullet that exits hits a 12-year-old boy, who later dies of his injuries. A police report helpfully explains that “bullets were fired.”
My friend-who-I don’t-keep-in-touch-with-as-much-as-I-should Charmaine Chua posted this story on Facebook earlier today. I read it, threw up in my mouth a little, read it again, and threw up a little more.
I asked her if I could share it. At the risk of causing you to throw up in your mouth as well, here it is.
Lately, I feel like I’ve read a lot of tweets and, ironically, blog posts, about how blogging is dead. Like newspapers, I suppose; we all know how hard it is to find one of those now. Although I’ll gladly take a blog or a copy of the Sunday New York Times over a future where plutocrat robot overlords beam 140-word communications directly into my brain from the wifi-enabled microchip that’s implanted in my wrist. (I assume that or the Sunday Times are the only two options, yes?)
“I don’t want to have another fucking conversation with another fucking person about what they’re eating or not eating or regret eating or pretend to not regret eating to mask the regret. OOPS! I JUST YAWNED TO DEATH.“
Go read that, and pretend I wrote it, because I wish I had.
There’s an article on Buzzfeed at the moment about the improbably-named Benedict Cumberbatch, who appeared in a fashion magazine wearing a t-shirt declaring, “This is what a feminist looks like.”
(Yes, I sometimes look at Buzzfeed articles that have been shared on my Facebook wall. Yes, I still use Facebook. Shut up.)
Happy Columbus Day! If you’d like to celebrate with me, meet me tomorrow at the southeast corner of 21st Street and 5th Avenue, 10AM. We’ll pick a direction to walk in, enter the first store we come across, and take whatever the hell we want.
Discovery! So exhilarating.
Proposition: If your male teachers are so distracted by the skinny jeans their students are wearing that they can’t teach, perhaps it is your male teachers who are the problem and not the pants-wearing teenagers.
Discuss amongst yourselves. Also, ew.
TERRIBLE IRONY: By the time you finish paying off your educational debt, you are too old to engage in drunken shenanigans on a weekend when you’re already exhausted from moving to a new apartment, and you settle for a nice dinner out at your favorite Jersey red sauce joint and a good milkshake. I mean, I like a milkshake as much as the next debt-free gal, but COME ON. Twenty-three-year-old me weeps.
Higher education: at what cost?