for some reason the same people who say that beyonce’s feminism is shallow or just a “PR stunt” are ecstatic over emma watson’s feminism as “speaking truth to power” like ok…….

musical theatre flame wars

musical theatre flame wars


Everybody should have to work in customer service and maybe then they’ll stop being assholes about literally nothing. The modern concept of the customer is always right had to be invented by entitled white people who never have been anything but a customer and constantly need their egos stroked.

It’s b/c of aspirational class stuff

The middle class wants to aspire higher all the time; wants the illusion of complete servitude and having all their needs (and whims) met

They sense every failure of customer service as a personal slight; every slight an injustice; because if *HE* (imaginary blessed richer / more successful person) gets to have all his needs met, then why can’t *I*

Aspirational class stuff will have the person always looking up and never looking down

(via versaria)

Source: reallivemannequin

Sometimes he’ll tell me about his college days, about an Afghanistan I have never known and very few people would believe ever existed.

"In the College of Engineering, there was this lecture hall, with seats for 1,000 students," his says as eyes begin to get bigger. "At the end of the lecture, the seats would move. The whole auditorium would shift as you spun along the diameter. The engineering of the building itself was very interesting." He continues to describe the construction details, then sighs. "I wonder if it’s still around?"

There is a pause. For 25 years I have tried to fill that silence, but I have never quite figured out what to say. I guess silence goes best there. He is the next one to speak. “You see, even your old-aged father was once part of something important.”

When he says things like that I want to scream. I don’t want to believe that the years can beat away at you like that. I don’t want to know that if enough time passes, you begin to question what was real or who you are. I am unconcerned with what the world thinks of him, but it is devastating to know that he at times thinks less of himself.

We are the same, but we are separated. People don’t see him in me. I wish they would. I walk in with a doctor’s white coat or a suit or my Berkeley sweatshirt and jeans. High heels or sneakers, it doesn’t matter, people always seem impressed with me. “Pediatrician, eh?” they say. “Well, good for you.”

I wonder what people see when they look at him. They don’t see what I see in his smile. Perhaps they see a brown man with a thick accent; perhaps they think, another immigrant cabdriver. Or perhaps it is much worse: Maybe he is a profile-matched terrorist, aligned with some axis of evil. “Another Abd-ool f——-g foreigner,” I once heard someone say.

Sometimes the worst things are not what people say to your face or what they say at all, it is the things that are assumed. I am in line at the grocery store, studying at a cafe, on a plane flying somewhere.

"Her English is excellent; she must have grown up here," I hear a lady whisper. "But why on earth does she wear that thing on her head?"

"Oh, that’s not her fault," someone replies. "Her father probably forces her to wear that."

I am still searching for a quick, biting response to comments like that. The trouble is that things I’d like to say aren’t quick. So I say nothing. I want to take their hands and pull them home with me. Come, meet my father. Don’t look at the wrinkles; don’t look at the scars; don’t mind the hearing aid, or the thick accent. Don’t look at the world’s effect on him; look at his effect on the world. Come into my childhood and hear the lullabies, the warm hand on your shoulder on the worst of days, the silly jokes on mundane afternoons. Come meet the woman he has loved and respected his whole life; witness the confidence he has nurtured in his three daughters. Stay the night; hear his footsteps come in at midnight after a long day’s work. That sound in the middle of the night is his head bowing in prayer although he is exhausted. Granted, the wealth is gone and the legacy unknown, but look at what the bombs did not destroy. Now tell me, am I really oppressed? The question makes me want to laugh. Now tell me, is he really the oppressor? The question makes me want to cry.

At times, I want to throw it all away: the education, the opportunities, the potential. I want to slip into the passenger seat of his cab and say: This is who I am. If he is going to be labeled, then give me those labels too. If you are going to look down on him, than you might as well peer down on me as well. Close this gap. Erase this line. There is no differentiation here. Of all the things I am, of all the things I could ever be, I will never be prouder than to say that I am of him.

I am this cabdriver’s daughter.

A pediatrician takes pride in her Afghan cabdriver father

(via kuttymolle)

(via mnagos)

Source: musaafer

do you think it's weird for an ex to "not see you that way" after several months broken up but still be open to dating again? i don't feel like he's leading me on because he's very clear he doesn't know what will happen, but i don't understand how he can find me attractive, yet not see me that way, yet be open to dating. it doesn't make sense. also i don't understand how he got over it so quickly after a long time dating.


he’s “open to dating again” b/c he wants to have sex with someone

follow your gut

don’t let him in again unless he ever grows a solid conviction about you

make it harder for him to come in again: keep moving on

as long as you keep moving on, the only way anyone will get in (for the second time, or the first time) is by moving along and growing along with you

and that will be the winning combination

Tonight I made halibut w/ a white wine, garlic & caper reduction (recipe here) w/ a side of roasted broccoli. I put a candle in between us. We drank the rest of the white wine. For dessert, I prepared a sweet fruit bruschetta: plums marinated in olive oil, sugar, salt, and vanilla, on top of ricotta, which has been spread on a slice of baguette. There were supposed to be cherries, too, but it’s very good with the plum alone. Matt put on a Bill Frisell playlist. I think we’ll watch something now.

I adore nights like these.

matty-boops said: i think a big part of it is also “how much money are *they* making off it”

yes!! that too! i like the word “reimbursement,” because it infers that you’re only asking for your due equal to any other person who put in work on the project.

writing for a website where no one gets paid, and the site creators have to spend money on hosting every month? that’s good work for free; good practice, and usually these kinds of things are good accountability groups.

but if you find yourself working for people making money on the project, make sure you get yours, you know?

don’t accept the pickle juice!!

(there’s always a tiny bubble in the beginning where you have to work for free, but that’s more of a “portfolio building” stage. afterwards, you can consider it “practice.” but if you’re working, always aim for reimbursement. creative labor IS labor. it’s more ephemeral than other kinds of labor, but it’s still something that requires a lot of brain power, skills, and energy.)

harlan ellison on getting paid as a creative worker

know your worth! know the worth of your work!

i’m all for working for free on communal DIY projects. i love writing for zines and blogs, i love acting for tiny tiny productions, i love playing music with friends.

but when you are out there, producing creative work as your means of living — know your worth! if you get a gig, get that money! if you’re working with millionaires, get your due! DON’T fall for these traps that tell you you’re doing it for “exposure”!

do work for free on your own time, and your friends’ time, all the time. but when you’re on someone else’s clock? bill those fuckers!

Roland Barthes’s list of likes and dislikes

Roland Barthes’s list of likes and dislikes


The modern system of international maritime signal flags dates back to 1855, although it was based on earlier flag codes. It continues to be used today by both naval and merchant vessels to signal messages and intentions at sea.

These ones spell out PENIS.

31DC2014 day 28: inspired by a flag

Source: ladycrappo