dubious

anonymous asked:

i've heard jonjon too instead of vietreu (took my a sec to figure out what that ship was) hahaha. Anyway I, too, am very Much Into tall WASC/WASP falling in love

why is it that i support brokeback douchehouse 100% and yet as soon as i read this i felt defensive like WHAT ABOUT MY VERTICALLY CHALLENGED JEWISH NIGHTMARE CHILD???? love is strange. anyway jonjon is lovett/favs although i personally use jonlo because i’m obsessed with favs’s INTIMATELY FOND INVOCATION OF A SINGLE SYLLABLE to address his dearly beloved. i believe that the vietreau alternative is JONTOMMY, not to be confused with TOMMYJON. but anyway, speaking of fine french wine, today i came across the following dubious explanation for shirtlessbeerponggate, maybe one of the more longterm obamabro savants can comment on the veracity thereof?

Friends of the Obama aides said that the afternoon was much less of a Bacchanalia than the publicity implied. Contrary to the original reports, the group was not playing beer pong. And their shirts were off because the group had gotten caught in a rainstorm before repairing to Old Glory in Georgetown. 

Everyone, PLEASE go support the new Power Rangers movie.

I know basically nothing about the franchise, I was never a fan as a kid, I get it if you’re like ‘idk what even’ about the movie.

 I haven’t even seen the movie yet. 

But out of the 5 main characters, 4 are non-white, and of those, 1 is an openly queer Latina, and 1 is black and autistic.

Words can’t express how huge this is.

Not only is this the first openly queer superhero in a blockbuster movie, she is also Latina. 

It’s also, the first autistic superhero in a blockbuster movie. 

It’s one of the first times I have ever seen a canonically autistic protagonist in a major piece of media, ever, in a narrative that isn’t just about them Suffering About Being Autistic™.

It’s the second black autistic character I’ve ever seen in any form of media, ever, either, and that is incredibly significant. It’s looking like it will be fairly positive representation, which is so important, given the issues that black autistic people face. (More likely to be underdiagnosed or misdiagnosed, more likely to be the victims of police violence and persecution, etc.)

If it doesn’t do well, the diversity of the film will get blamed by Hollywood, rather than any of the individual creative merits of the film itself.

But if this movie succeeds, it could be genuinely groundbreaking, in terms of what is considered viable in terms of casting and representation in major blockbuster movies. 

If you want more POC heroes, more queer heroes, more disabled heroes, in your media?

Please, please, go see this movie.

jalapeno--business  asked:

So whenever I read trc, I'm always overwhelmed by this almost pathological desire to experience the same feelings of wonder and beauty and magic that you describe in the series. Yes, I understand that there is no sentient, magical forest to discover, and no sleeping king that I can search for, but I still have this urge to have similar feelings and experiences in my life. So how do you experience a similar kind of magic and wonder that you describe in your books, in everyday life?

Dear jalapeno–business,

Are you listening closely?

As an author, I travel a lot. At one point, I was on the road one day out of every three — planes, hotels, rental cars. There’s a rhythm to it, like running up a very long flight of stairs. You figure out how many stairs you can take in a jump, and how to breathe-in-breathe-out to keep from wasting your lungs, and you learn how to tell when you have to stop to rest your knees or you just won’t make it to the top. 

The airports and the planes and the people can all start to seem the same after awhile, if you’re looking at them wrong. If you let them. Anything in life can sound ordinary if that’s all you’re listening for.

Back in 2014, I was in a Texas airport. The night had that glittering senseless jitter to it that happens when you’re tired but going home, finally going home. I was early for my flight and sitting several gates away from my real gate, listening to music. A young man sat down two seats away. Ordinarily, tired and occupied with the peculiar every-day magic of the music in my headphones, I wouldn’t have noticed him, but a moment later, a phone rang. He asked if it was mine; it wasn’t. Someone had forgotten it on the seat between us. 

We both looked at it.

It rang again for someone who didn’t know to pick up, and then he took it away to one of the United desks for them to give it to someone who would listen. He didn’t return.

Two hours later, I went to my real gate to board. Full flight. Everyone was checking and double-checking their seat assignments as they defended their right to aisles and windows. When my seatmate settled himself next to me, I looked up, and it was the guy from the waiting area. He had a tilt to his chin that telegraphed that he thought he was hot shit and a grin that said he recognized me. 

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

We laughed ruefully and applied our headphones — we both knew the routine of polite air travel. But the agreeable tingle of the coincidence still ate at me, and I could tell it ate at him, too, because after a few moments, he offered me a truffle from his bag. I told him I couldn’t take it because of my allergies, but the headphones came off. We started to talk.

And he was a big talker. He was cocky. A surgical resident. He told me how he loved the hell out of taking internal organs out of people. He described how he listened to sixty-minute epic soundtracks in his ear buds while he removed appendixes and gallbladders, kidneys and stones. He told me of watching Dateline by himself at the end of seventy and eighty hour work weeks, and he told me about his Hyundai, which I made fun of. Confidentially, he whispered to me about a surgeon he knew who had the goal of removing every gallbladder in Texas. Two hours into the flight, the conversation tilted toward spirituality. He’s hot shit, he confessed, and works hard, but he sometimes wonders if he’s allowed to want to be successful, or if that makes him a bad person. Because he’s working a lot of hours in a week, and he’s tired, but he’s pretty sure that he’s hot shit, but maybe that’s not allowed.

I was watching him fumble his fingers over each other. He was scratching a hole in his own palm.

And all at once there was a phone in my head, and it was ringing just for me. 

“One of your parents has obsessive-compulsive disorder,” I told him. “Maybe both.”

The shimmering grin slipped. “How did you know? How could you know that?” 

I asked him if he was getting treatment for it.

He said, “No, no, I’m over it. How could you know that?”

Because in a foggy way, that phone was still ringing between us, and now, I recognized the number.

I said, “Don’t kill yourself.”

He replied, “No way,” and then he started to cry. 

The shit-eating grin had vanished. He told me how he’d made up his mind that he didn’t want to make it to 35. He’d researched all the ways to make sure he didn’t. Over the next hour, I told him about my OCD, and how I thought his uncertainty over wanting to be successful but also wanting to be humble was a function of his OCD’s spiritual obsession. That he wasn’t over OCD, that you never were, but that his agony didn’t have to be a real thing. He could be both humble and successful. It wasn’t against the rules of goodness to be proud of what you’d done, as long as you were doing things for the right reasons. I told him how once I bought a race car, but I’d given it away to someone who could use the money, because I realized I was only racing to look sexy in a car, and not because it was really making me happy. 

I told him he didn’t have to worry about looking sexy in a Hyundai, though, and he replied that he would look sexy in anything, and then he cried a little more. 

Everyone else in the plane was asleep, but we were wide awake.

When we got off the plane in Virginia, the surgical resident gave me an awkward side-hug, and he wiped his face. Then he dug in his bag for the wrapper from his truffle. As the other travelers shuffled past us sleepily, he pressed it into my hand. He didn’t want to give me his name, he said, but he wanted something for me to remember so that when we ran into each other again in 15 years, I’d know who he was.

After we’d parted ways, I turned my phone off airplane mode, and a text came in that had been sent while I was in the air. It was from the person I’d given the race car to. I hadn’t heard from him in nearly six months. The text said only: thank u maggie i have such a hppy life bc of u

Magic.

You have to be listening closely. Phones are ringing all over the world, and sometimes they look like magical forests, and sometimes they look like race cars, and sometimes they look like surgical residents.

urs,

Stiefvater

honestly my favorite line from “Uptown Funk” is definitely “make a dragon wanna retire, man” because that’s honestly such a great mental image. an elderly, tired dragon taking a look at Bruno Mars and going “alright then, that’s my sign. time to let the young ones have at it.” taking out their 401k gold hoard. moving to a cave in Miami. collecting dragon pension

Benedict Cumberbatch has publicly stated that he thinks people viewing protagonists in media like Sherlock Holmes as autistic is ‘dangerous’ & ‘lazy’ because it ‘offers false hope’ that autistic people could be ‘brilliant’ or heroic…

so yeah i’m gonna give a pass on his superhero movie, because he doesn’t think people like me deserve heroes, or that we could ever be them.

“You seem very put together and secure in one self so I’m going to ask you this, and I would prefer it wasn’t publicly posted. Even if you don’t respond, that’s okay, but at this point I feel like I would appreciate a wiser person’s perspective. My boyfriend and I broke up, which may sound petty, but the shitty way I feel is not. It was because he was too overwhelmed to put effort into it. What would you suggest is the best way to move on from said breakup? HOW DO YOU PURGE YOURSELF OF EMOTION”

I asked this reader for permission to pull her question out of my askbox and answer it publicly because it seemed like it might be useful to more than one person considering becoming an emotional robot.

Dear Unnamed Reader,

First: you’re not going to like my advice.

Second: you don’t have to take it. I’m really only adequately equipped to give advice on how to be more like me, and trust me, sources are widely divided on whether this is a good thing. 

Third: I don’t think your turmoil is petty. One thousand ships have been launched in the name of a bad break-up.

Fourth: You ask me how to purge yourself of emotion. I reckon this must mean I don’t look like a hot mess on the internet, which is good to know. But I assure you that when something pings my emotional radar, I feel all feelings at level 11. Example? This morning, I gave Lover a ride to an errand. We took my old Camaro. On the interstate ramp, I put the car through its paces and experienced the burst of joy that comes in third gear at 4400 rpm. Once the car had settled, I realized Lover was staring at me. “God,” he said, “can you be any more happy?” No. No, in fact, I couldn’t. Emotions are binary in Maggie Stiefvater. You should have seen me when I first heard Two Door Cinema Club’s “Sun.” I almost died from happiness. 

But that also means my negative emotions are dialed to 11. I don’t often get upset — I’ve just become so unreasonably plucky that I assume all woes are transient, so whatevs. Because of my outsized belief in my ability to problem-solve, I really only get upset when I feel powerless. 2015 turned out to be the year of powerlessness: terrible things happening to friends, to my family, in the world. I finally broke last weekend over a comparatively tiny thing —a news article printed stuff about me that was so hilariously not true that I thought no one would believe it, particularly as the truth was still perfectly findable. But they did. And I couldn’t do a thing about it without stirring things up more and getting yet more messages telling me how glad they were to see me shot down from my Raven Cycle induced high blah blah etc. A minuscule thing — but yet more powerlessness after a year of epic powerlessness. I proceeded to launch 1,000 emotional ships. Work ground to a halt. I listened to Kygo’s remix of Matt Corby’s “Brother” 62 times in a row without pause. I sat under my office desk, only emerging to give in to to my OCD, which demanded, among other things, 17 clothing changes in 8 hours because SEAMS GOD THE SEAMS WHY. I blew a deadline. I flew to Colorado. I exceeded the speed limit in a rental Nissan that was not meant to exceed the speed limit. I blew another deadline. I paced until I couldn’t feel my knees. I thought about how I’d ruled out self-harm as an option a decade ago. I returned home. I sat on the shower floor for a very long time. I failed to sleep. I could have pretended that I wasn’t hurting, but — 

Fifth: you cannot cut out the sad emotions without cutting out the happy ones. 

Sixth: I am a disgustingly happy person. I fucking love life. The number of things in life that please me daily continues to astonish me, considering how terrible the world is. But I’m a happy person because I’m also sometimes a wretchedly sad person or terribly angry person. If you want to live life turned up all the way, you have to be open to the possibility of both joy or despair. 

Seventh: which brings me to the advice you’re not going to like: being miserable right now is not a bad thing. What you’re feeling is a valid response to a situation that you feel powerless in. It’s horrible. But you feeling genuine pain now means that you can — and will — feel genuine happiness at some point. Agony and joy come from the same place: being emotionally invested in your own life. 

Eighth: The way back to happiness is getting out of the cycle of powerlessness — basically, finding a place you can have agency again. Your misery is going to want you to find a way to be powerful in your current miserable situation. If you’re anything like me, you’ve rehearsed a few thousand options in your head. Calling him and winning him back. Making him feel as sad as you. Sending ugly greeting cards to his mother. Anything that would make you feel like you’re not completely helpless. But you need to find something else that you can be the boss of. Remind yourself of the things that make you feel like a badass. It doesn’t matter how silly or stupid they are. It can be as difficult as a project that you think will change the world, or as easy as playing a song that always gets you high. Do that.

Ninth: Do not listen to Kygo’s remix of “Brother.” It will not cheer you up.

Tenth: There is no tenth, but I really wanted one. So eat more leafy green vegetables.

urs,

Stiefvater


ETA I CHANGED IT TO 2015 I DON’T KNOW WHY I KEEP CALLING THIS YEAR 2016