even with the bad screen recorder

The internet is pushing us ­— in good ways and in bad — to realize that the official version of events shouldn’t always be trusted or accepted without question. And historians are constantly updating the record by looking for primary sources that were overlooked in earlier eras, often from marginalized figures. These days, such omissions will still happen, but we can catch them faster. Oversights that would have taken decades to correct are now resolved in weeks, even hours. We now get a kaleidoscopic view of events as they unfold, often in real time, on our screens and devices. History is not neutral or synonymous with truth, but the internet affords us a newfound vantage on the totality of passing time — the profound implications of which we are just now beginning to grasp

Molly was running down the halls at top speed, yelling out a quick sorry to everyone that was forced to move out of her way or end up sprawled on the ground. She was late, which was nothing new but even for her this time would be a record. Just as she was rounding a corner she heard something drop and it stopped her dead in her tracks. Looking down she noticed the smartphone which she still hadn’t quite gotten the hang of. “Shit.” She swore as she noticed the crack that had appeared on the screen. “Is this bad?” She asked the next person she saw, holding up the phone. “I mean, it still seems to be working fine…apart from the crack of course.” She muttered, her eyebrows furrowing as she studied it.

The internet is pushing us ­— in good ways and in bad — to realize that the official version of events shouldn’t always be trusted or accepted without question. And historians are constantly updating the record by looking for primary sources that were overlooked in earlier eras, often from marginalized figures. These days, such omissions will still happen, but we can catch them faster. Oversights that would have taken decades to correct are now resolved in weeks, even hours. We now get a kaleidoscopic view of events as they unfold, often in real time, on our screens and devices. History is not neutral or synonymous with truth, but the internet affords us a newfound vantage on the totality of passing time — the profound implications of which we are just now beginning to grasp.

ddlovato: When I shot this video, I didn’t want it to be anything close to glamorous or anywhere near “sexy.” I wanted it to be like nothing that I’ve ever put in the creative to a video I’ve shot. This song hurts. So unbelievably bad. And when I perform it on a tv show, in rehearsals or even in a bathtub, it completely takes me to a different place. This song was so therapeutic to write and record, and because of that I wanted to translate that same emotion onto the screen. I’m so grateful to everyone who was a part of this video and this song. And to all of you, thank you for listening.. And hopefully letting yourself be taken to a place in your heart that needs healing too. #STONECOLD

ddlovato: When I shot this video, I didn’t want it to be anything close to glamorous or anywhere near “sexy.” I wanted it to be like nothing that I’ve ever put in the creative to a video I’ve shot. This song hurts. So unbelievably bad. And when I perform it on a tv show, in rehearsals or even in a bathtub, it completely takes me to a different place. This song was so therapeutic to write and record, and because of that I wanted to translate that same emotion onto the screen. I’m so grateful to everyone who was a part of this video and this song. And to all of you, thank you for listening.. And hopefully letting yourself be taken to a place in your heart that needs healing too. #STONECOLD

The US had another school shooting today.  And, for the record, I know people who have said to me they will wait a few weeks until going to see a Star Wars screenings...just in case something happens.

Like, yeah. This isn’t a ‘politics’ thing. This isn’t even a “second amendment” thing anymore. 

This is a “How much more can Americans convince themselves this is an OK way to live” thing now. It’s sick and it’s gross and anyone who pretends this isn’t a problem is deranged beyond belief. 

How the fuck did America let things get this bad?

Reed watched the Reaping of District Nine from the bar car on the train. He didn’t go to the Reaping. He never did. His face was a mere memory of District Nine, surpassed by years of victors from other Districts. District Nine was clumped together with 10, 11, and 12 for the record for not having as many Victors as the first eight. Reed had just turned thirty-eight years old in the beginning of the spring, having been sixteen when he was crowned victor during the 51st Games. Now, it was the year of the 73rd, and his tributes had been picked. One was a scrawny, yet tall brunette boy who had a bad case of acne from the long hours under the blistering heat of the sun. 

The other was a freckled girl with long wavy blonde hair and eyes that stood out even on the screen. Reed waited patiently for the arrival of his two new tributes whom he wasn’t sure if he’d be able to save. After twenty Games of not having a single Victor to show for District Nine, he knew his people were losing faith in his abilities, but never once had he really seen it up close. After all, he was the Reaper. That was what the people of the Capitol had called him once he escaped the arena covered in obscene amounts of blood. It wasn’t his fault for most of them. It was just the nature of his arena, but with the blood of eight children on his hands with the use of a scythe, he deserved the nickname even if people had long forgotten what he had looked like as he roamed lonelier and lonelier in the depths of the Victor’s Village of District Nine. 

Soon enough, his tributes boarded the train with the escort. Reed sat in a lounge chair, dressed in gray suit pants, a vest, and a white shirt that was open at the two top buttons. In his right hand was a half drank glass of alcohol with partially melted ice. He smiled, almost too happily, at the two children which he was lucky to have gotten over the age of sixteen, from what he could tell.

“Have a seat,” said Reed, his voice powerful as it carried and bounce off of the metal train walls.