Effed-Up Shit

FYI, this is an actual thing that is possible:

“One morning, after she was awakened by her bedside alarm, she sat up and, she recalled, ‘this fluid came down my face, this greenish liquid’… She had scratched through her skull during the night—and all the way into her brain.”

I just thought you’d want to know. Explore the horror: “The Itch,” by Dr. Atul Gawande, in the New Yorker.

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Effed-Up Shit, It's 3AM; I must be lonely.

On survival, and enough.

It’s two-thirty in the morning. I’d like to be sleeping. Instead, I’m propped up on a corner of the sofa, bleeding like a stuck pig and trying not to whimper audibly as I wait for this horse-tranquilizing doze of Advil to quell the menstrual cramps that feel like a dozen animated claw hammers trying to escape my uterus from within. I’m tired, and I’m cranky, and it hurts, and this sucks.

But I’m alive.

Connie’s not.

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Effed-Up Shit, To Hell In a Handbasket, Warning: Strident Feminism Ahead

“We have to love each other. You hear me? It’s up to us.”

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.

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Effed-Up Shit, It's 3AM; I must be lonely.

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.

If anyone tries to stop you, just shove ’em out of the way.

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An Open Letter, Effed-Up Shit, Warning: Strident Feminism Ahead

Hey, gym? How long would it take you to redecorate if you hung a dick pic and a single bodybuilder complained?

This is an actual email I had to send to my gym. I don’t want to be driven back into the grasping arms of New York Sports Club or, god forbid, Crunch, but I will if it means I get to lift weights without having to stare at porn.

Also: AAARGH.

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Effed-Up Shit, Goings-On, Jesus H. Christ

New York: The City That Never Shuts the Hell Up

I travel a lot. I get stared at a lot because I am tall, and, oh yeah, fat. I’ve been stared at in a variety of foreign countries on several different continents.

Once, in Vietnam, I attracted an entire class of high school students who lined up to have their photos taken with me one at a time.

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Effed-Up Shit, To Hell In a Handbasket, You've Built a Crawl Space Under Your All-Time Low

Sorry, Humanity, we’re breaking up.

We all know, by now, that you should never read the comments.

Apparently, we can’t read the internet at all anymore, because this is an actual, non-satire, not-in-the-comments thing I just read. (Warning: will probably cause instant head explosion):

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