I’m a lot of fun to hang out with, and so are these 277 other people.
You should join us; we’re hiring.
There was an egregious typo in a column you recently published on your website. In the forward-thinking and insightful piece “Drunk Female Guests are the Greatest Threat to Fraternities,” you accidentally spelled “Entitled Sexist Frat Brothers” as “Drunk Female Guests.”
I’m not sorry I had food poisoning or that I puked in the elevator, because I had no control over either of those things, but I am sorry you had just come from the pool and were wearing flip-flops.
Good reflexes, though. Glad you thought it was funny.
You know how some guy famous for being on a reality television because his family got rich off of duck callers made shitty comments about gay people, received some blowback for it from the network that airs the show, and then everyone got their Freedom Panties in a bunch because OMG FIRST AMENDMENT?! And how that doesn’t have half a good goddamn to do with the First Amendment?
Once upon a time, I had another blog that was sort-of-but-not-entirely about food. I was looking for one of my recipes this morning, ended up re-reading several of my old posts, and was delighted to discover that I’m still proud of them. More importantly, having this record of what I was experiencing, thinking, and feeling throughout some pretty tumultuous years is a gift that keeps on giving — a reminder that I can power through hard times, have had more good times than I sometimes remember, and have always had a powerful voice, no matter what.
Huzzah for blogging, and happy Sunday to me.
I recently had a conversation with someone who, after learning that I work with WordPress, wanted to pepper me with questions about his blog’s plugins. I told him I’d be happy to chat blogging, but that I didn’t know how helpful I’d be — I’m not a developer, I explained, only a writer. I spend a lot of time moving about in a technological world that is not my home planet, where I’m still a second-language learner, and find myself frequently describing my role that way:
Only a writer.
Physical therapy: a place where you go and pay people money to force you to move about in ways designed to cause pain to your injured joint, so you can return home and resume sitting still so as not to cause pain to your injured joint. Makes sense.
There are electrodes and gels and many unidentifiable apparati. I think the physical therapists might be evil wizards, though it will take six more weeks of twice-weekly visits to be sure.
I was coming online to write a post about something totally-non-dander-raising, but made the mistake of first pausing to read the New York Times’s piece on how Hobart and William Smith Colleges bungled a student’s rape report.