Effed-Up Shit, Fatty McChubberson

The Fat and the Furious: 2 Fat 2 Furious

Here’s a thing that happened once.

I was walking down Union Square West in New York City with my husband. It must have been June, because it was the kind of warm weather where you could meander around reveling at the heat on your shoulders without being accosted by the humid garbage funk of Late Summer in the City. We had just done something normal-weekend fun — a movie? A book shopping spree? An afternoon in the park? — and were on our way to dinner, standing at a light and waiting to cross 14th.

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Building teh Interwebz, Effed-Up Shit, Warning: Strident Feminism Ahead, You've Built a Crawl Space Under Your All-Time Low

I do not think “strong community management” means what you think it means.

(Or maybe it does, in which case: fuck “strong community management.”)

SxSW canceled a panel on overcoming harassment in gaming because of harassment and threats of violence, because: of course they did. Then, they said this by way of explanation:

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Effed-Up Shit

Goodness, tomorrow is Columbus Day? Usually I like to plan a really robust celebration, but unfortunately — or perhaps, appropriately — I’ll be traveling tomorrow. I was going to just fly from Newark to Chicago to Salt Lake City placidly, with my fellow knee-squishing, United Snack Box-eating Economy Class denizens, but in honor of the man and the holiday, I think I’ll just stay in Chicago, insist I am already in Salt Lake City, demand an unlimited supply of free cheesy popcorn from the Garrett’s stand in O’Hare, and cut off the ears of the staff there when they refuse. Just like Columbus! Huzzah, exploration.

Boy, time really files when you’re cutting off the hands of indigenous peoples who refuse to give you all their gold!

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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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