forty hundred

EULOGY FOR AMERICA

Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to say our goodbyes to our dear friend America, who died recently after a brief, intense battle with fascism and a long, slow battle with carbs. Thank you all for coming out to help say farewell. It’s not easy. But at least America died doing what it loved most: deep-frying Halloween candy while white men tried to explain to women what jazz is.

America was sick for a really long time. In the early stages, I think we were all in denial. You could tell that America was unwell—public displays of brutality, deeply internalized prejudice, “Entourage”—but it seemed curable. Just a case of plain old electile dysfunction. We thought that we’d caught the fascism early, but, as we now know, it had metastasized. America was more Florida than country by the end.

America was born right here, in America, and lived here its entire life. America was always about family. It is survived by its similarly ill father, Britain, and its large brood of children: baseball, Google, fireworks, losing your fingers to fireworks, giving your Uber driver only four stars because he talked to you, thinking granola is healthy, Chicago (the place), “Chicago” (the musical), “Chicago” (the movie adaptation of the musical), Chicago (the band), “Chicago Fire,” “Chicago Med,” “Chicago P.D.,” “Chicago Justice,” “Chicago ‘Chicago’ ” (a show about the Chicago production of the musical “Chicago,” coming to NBC this fall), and a bunch of wars.

I’d personally be nowhere without America. America was there when I was born, when I got married, when I saw Janet Jackson’s nipple at the Super Bowl. Remember that? After that happened, none of us slept for days, because we had never seen the pointy part of a boob on our TVs before, and it really upset us. America was really cool that way. It would always get mad when you’d see the pointy part of a boob on a TV. I’m gonna miss that.

However, we should not dwell on the loss of our dear country, friend, and place where all the Cheesecake Factories and Lids stores are. Today, let’s celebrate America’s life, and remember all of the remarkable things it accomplished and how many actors playing Spider-Man who keep getting cuter and younger were inside of it. America gave us so much. And, boy, did it look good for its age. America was two hundred and forty-one years old when it died, but it didn’t look a day over a hundred and sixty-four! It looked so young, it could’ve been the very same America that put its own citizens in internment camps!

America got a bunch of things really right. Mostly how to put food inside other food. Anyone can just eat a chicken. But in a duck?! In a turkey?! In a gun?! No one is going to forget the Turduckenun any time soon. America was so inventive that way. And, I mean, everyone does silly stuff when they’re young. America was beautiful, too. Sure, it was a little lumpy, and you could always see its Florida through its pants, but it just got hotter with age. So hot. It was so, so hot by the time it died. Almost too hot to live in.

If there’s anything we should take away from this tragedy, it’s that you should always check yourself for fascism, especially around your midsection. It’s easy enough to do in the shower. If you catch it early, it can be cleared up with a rigorous regimen of local elections and books and yoga. But America was cocky. Nothing bad had ever happened to it before! It assumed this fascism would pass, just like the Second World War and “Entourage” had.

What a shame. America was just the best damn country in the whole U.S.A. I’m sorry that I’m getting choked up. I get really emotional when I think of America, and also I took too big of a bite of Turduckenun and it got lodged in my windpipe. We will all miss America greatly. Every time I see an American flag or a gun, I’ll think of America. But we can all rest easy knowing America is in a better place now: Russia.

i feel like i have no idea what i look like. small bits of me are these terrible puzzle pieces i use to make a cubist painting of what i could be. sometimes in the mirror i see a girl worth loving, but in pictures i see: arms, legs, nose, body. one good picture out of two hundred and forty. i felt like i looked nice this morning. i see myself in plus/minus, good hair but bad skin, crooked teeth but nice eyes, fat arms chubby body good sense of humor at least if they get past the wide forehead and every other ugly piece. i don’t know. once in a while out of the corner of my eye i see myself and i’m startled because i look nothing like what i thought i did. but then the moment shifts and i become pieces again.

anonymous asked:

prompt: you meet an angel in a laundromat

the angel sits on top
of one of the washers, kicking
their not-feet in time
to the laundromat muzak,
humming along with
their guttural half-here
half-off in a distant
otherworld voice.

you’ve been watching
the angel for some time,
as they put their bloodied
robes & ragged sandals
on a spin cycle for delicates,
as they poured in soap
& counted out quarters,
but it’s only as you fold
your now dry duvet
that you realize their wings
are covered in a thousand
red eyes. you look at what
should be their face
& find the swirling
of the stars instead.

‘good morning,’ you say
as you pass them on your way
out. the angel grabs your arm.
their touch burns like ice
& makes you ache. ‘your son,’
the angel whispers, ‘tells me
that he is so so proud
of how you got sober. i placed
one hundred forty four
red roses in a vase
by your door. i will be back
next sunday should you need
to talk to someone.’

3

books meme: [1/9] nine otps

jem carstairs and tessa gray (the infernal devices)

“Forty-nine thousand, two hundred and seventy-five days since I last kissed you,” he said. “And I thought of you every single one of them. You do not have to remind me of the Tessa I loved. You were my first love and you will be my last one. I have never forgotten you. I have never not thought of you.

Six Years and Seven Days

This is pretending that Bellamy could hear Clarke talking all those years, she just can’t hear him responding, and that the ship at the end is them coming back to Earth. 

So…pain. 


Day Three

“Bellamy…are you up there? Are you alive? Is anyone alive?”

Static.

“I only woke up yesterday. At least, I think it was yesterday. I barely made it into the bunker in time, but I made it. And the computer says it’s been three days since the radiation hit, and I was so hungry I thought I might die. Please tell me you didn’t die.”

Silence.

“Bellamy, my mom was right. In a way. My face is disgusting, covered in boils. You’d be laughing at me…probably. Because she was right but so were you. I’m not dead Bellamy. I hope you aren’t either.”

His fingers slammed on the respond button, pushing it down to the point of it feeling like it would crack from the pressure.

“I’m not dead, Clarke. I’m not dead.”

Keep reading

Day One Hundred And Forty-Two

-Tonight, I was asked to work guest services. Upon reaching the desk, I was handed a large tub containing boxes of “Farewell Dandelion” crayons to hand out to the children. My powers grow stronger still.

-I overheard a woman remark, “As a nurse, it is my opinion that being in a car crash would be both scary and somewhat painful.” As a human who experiences emotions somewhat normally, I concur.

-A mysterious woman with a mysterious purpose entered the store. She told me that she wished to give my manager of letter, content and reason unknown. She insisted upon delivering it herself to avoid the attention of unwanted eyes. I can only hope to one day be a part of such ominous goings-on as have gone on before me tonight.

-Halloween merchandise has arrived, and with it, the canned screams of skeletons and witches echoing down the aisles. I could not be more elated.

-A young boy, perhaps six or seven years of age, excitedly ran through the dollar section, digging around and eventually adorning himself with a pointed black witch’s cap and a tutu as pink and frilly as could be. He was delighted by his outfit, but his delight was nothing compared to his mother’s delight, and his mother’s delight was nothing compared to mine.

-A woman approached the service desk to tell me in a hushed voice that there was a dog outside. She then raised her eyebrows, gave me a knowing look, and walked away. This is precisely the kind of informant I need in my life.

-I processed a return for an elderly woman who was distressed that her new digital thermometer would only display the same numbers with no change. Unsure of how to tell her that she had yet to remove the sticker on the screen, I gladly gave her a refund and sent her on her way.

sirius black is 145 days older than james potter and don’t think for a moment that he didn’t hold that over his head

sirius, inspecting his facial hair: don’t worry, prongs. you’re bound to hit puberty soon, i’m sure of it. 

respect your elders, prongs: dumbledore, mcgonagall, your mother, me.

what’s that? i’ve got a watch from your parents before you? 144 more days, prongs. hang in there. 

age before beauty, prongs. no wait, i’ve got that, too. 

as the fairest, tallest, and oldest marauder present, you ought to listen to me.

to lily, when she turns 20: i can’t believe you’re married to a teenager.

how am i one-hundred and forty five days older than you, and i look so young? one of life’s mysteries, i suppose.

to a hungover james: when you’re older, you’ll be able to hold your liquor properly, young buck.

10

Nearby is Valhalla, vast and gold-bright. And every day, Odin chooses slain men to join him. They arm themselves and fight in the courtyard. They kill one another; but every night they rise again, and ride back to the hall, and feast. The roof is made out of shields. The rafters are spears. Coats of mail litter the benches. A wolf stands at the Western door and an eagle hovers above it. It has five hundred and forty doors, and when Ragnarok comes, eight hundred warriors will march out of each door, shoulder to shoulder.

2

There were a hundred and forty-two staircases at Hogwarts: wide, sweeping ones; narrow, rickety ones; some that led somewhere different on a Friday; some with a vanishing step halfway up that you had to remember to jump. Then there were doors that wouldn’t open unless you asked politely, or tickled them in exactly the right place, and doors that weren’t really doors at all, but solid walls just pretending. It was also very hard to remember where anything was, because it all seemed to move around a lot. The people in the portraits kept going to visit each other, and Harry was sure the coats of armor could walk.

Day One Hundred and Forty

-Today is my first day at my new location. Everything is similar, yet so unsettlingly different. Each component of my register is in a different place, leaving me constantly grabbing at the air. However, this store certainly has its priorities in order. My register was adorned by a shiny box full of stickers. I think I will do just fine here. 

-I rang up a pair of parents accompanied by a young man, perhaps a year and a half of age, in a onesie featuring a bow tie and suspenders. I am pleased to announce that he was every ounce the gentleman one would expect. 

-A young girl was thrilled to receive a sticker from me, bouncing and giggling with glee. She then stuck it directly into her hair, ensuring a mess impossible to fix. Despite her parents’ dismay, I am overjoyed by the part I played in her happiness. 

-I handed a sticker to a young boy sporting a lovely set of cat ears. He then asked his mother if he could talk to his baby sister. Upon receiving a yes, he ran over to her and began to brag about his sticker. After a moment, he asked for another to give to her. I obliged, only to have him tell her that he was going to hold onto it for her. He showed a great amount of thoughtfulness and compassion in this moment, so I naturally handed him an additional five. 

-An elderly man with a thick Scottish accent gave me a lecture on the different varieties of Mountain Dew and their respective shortcomings. I am glad that my interests are so clear to all around me, as, in this brief transaction, I was taught more than two years of university ever did.

Me in 2146: I might have had a rough time in my teens… and my twenties… and thirties… and forties through a hundred and forties. But my hundred and fifties are gonna be great. I can tell.

Day One Hundred And Forty-Three

-Moments before clocking in for my shift, I stopped by the restroom, only to find the sink full of freshly-minted ice cubes. I have no choice but to take this as an omen and run with it, discerning what it foretells as I go.

-A large and lumbering man stopped in the middle of his purchase to ask in a grave voice if I was “much of a movie guy.” I nodded, unwittingly prompting his lengthy diatribe against the new “It” movie, specifically the ending, which I had hoped to experience myself first. He told me that he was deeply shaken by the ending, but could not believe that the studio would pull such a surprising move. I find this hard to swallow myself, as I have little doubt that this man was the character inspiration in the first place.

-I rang up a stack of folders adorned with a gorgeous emblem. Curious what sort of cutesy one-liner these portfolios may be sporting, I took a moment to read what it has to say. Scrawled across the folders in golden, shimmering, cursive curls was the word, “FOLDER.” I have a great appreciation for whoever decided to ensure no miscommunication about what their product was while keeping it as stylish as can be.

-“Get off of that, that’s a trash can,” a woman called out after her son. “Get off of that, too, that is also a trash can.” I was unable to see the boy, but I know him to be a kindred spirit.

-Several loaves of bread have been found hidden throughout the electronics department. The reasons for this are currently unknown, but certainly imperative.

-“Are you Batman?” A boy asked his mother, who shook her head. “Are you Batwoman?” he followed up. She nodded, happily. “For Halloween, you’re going to be dad, and I’m going to be sad.” This child’s brain has been rushing a mile a minute, and I am glad to have hitched a ride along with him.

Beyonce is better than you.  Move on.

I am so tired of these Deep White Women using big words to dull Beyonce’s shine while paying the false coin of being introspective on behalf of all women.  

In doing so, she has created a new paradigm for what it means to be a pregnant woman in the public eye — one in which the very act of conceiving and carrying a child (or two children; she is having twins) becomes de facto proof of the power of femininity, doled out in carefully controlled and stage-managed moments. The message is positive: Pregnant is beautiful. It should be worshiped.

The problem is, for many women it is also messy, sometimes uncomfortable and just another fact of life. And in her extended fetishization of her own physical evolution, Beyoncé has not allowed for any of that. As a result, she hasn’t just raised the bar for fellow famous people. She may have raised it uncomfortably high for us all.

(cont.)

How is anything Beyonce does remotely relevant to your average, everyday, pedestrian existence?  She is Beyonce.  Everything she does, she probably does it better than you.  Why?  An innate talent coupled with an unparalleled work ethic that leads to way more money than you can ever imagine which can pretty much buy her way out of having to deal with normal people shit.

Was Beyonce raising the bar for secrecy when she released a whole ass album with six hundred forty-three videos under the cover of darkness?  No.  You just kept on with your average person ability to tell a lie.

Was Beyonce raising the bar for career achievement when she broke the record for the most number of Grammy nominations by a female artist?  No.  You continued to hope for a promotion from bra-fitter to Victoria’s Secret Cashwrap Supervisor and drowned your average person sorrows at happy hour in the meantime.

Was Beyonce raising the bar for marital discord when her sister went all Sharkeisha Nooooo on her husband in an elevator?  No.  You just left another passive aggressive note on the refrigerator about being out of milk and hoped your average person husband would pick up on the subtext and get his act together.

Was Beyonce raising the bar for upper thigh meat when she decided to stop wearing pants on stage in 2009?  No.  You are still spending your average person moneys on women’s fitness magazines featuring rail thin white women.

How is Beyonce now raising the bar for pregnancy because she is fat-faced, happy, and draped in expensive fashions?  You can still continue your average person pregnancy eating pickles & ice cream in your husband’s XL t-shirt watching reruns of Sex & The City because guess what – you are not Beyonce.

Nobody is watching your every move.  Nobody cares what you do.  Laugh too hard in the checkout line at Kroger and slip out a little pregnancy pee.  Wear mis-matched shoes because you haven’t seen your feet in 6 weeks.  Wear a ponytail with a damn scrunchie every single day of your third trimester because you can’t be arsed to fuss with your hair.  Nobody gives a shit.  You are not Beyonce.

Beyonce’s job is to be more glamorous than you regardless of her life stage.  If Beyonce broke every bone in her leg, guess what.  She would be on Instagram with the mother of all casts, some model only previously available to astronauts or some shit, and the Beyhive would find a new emoji to represent her high fashion medical device.  

Don’t compare yourself to any other pregnant woman.  Do you know how many variables there are in a pregnancy?  It’s a wonder any of us escape the uterus alive with all the things that can complicate gestation.  But it’s especially ridiculous to compare yourself to Beyonce for any reason whatsoever.  You are taking a woman who has built a fortune on one part talent, one part mystique, and one part glamour and expecting her to, what, look regular?  Give you the personal details of her morning sickness?  Do you also want her to write her next hit about pooping on the delivery table? Show you her afterbirth diaper?  She ain’t Karen from accounting.  This is BEYONCE and y'all need to find something else to be concerned about.

Destiel in numbers

Me: Notices that it is 147 days between Cas dying in 12x23 and 13x01, 148 counting the premiere date.

Me: Remembers this:

Buffy: How long was I gone?
Spike: Hundred forty-seven days yesterday… um, one-forty-eight today. ‘Cept today doesn’t count, does it.

*THROWS COMPUTER OUT THE WINDOW*

8

Jem Carstairs x Tessa Gray (the infernal devices)

“Forty-nine thousand, two hundred and seventy-five days since I last kissed you,” he said. “And I thought of you every single one of them. You do not have to remind me of the Tessa I loved. You were my first love and you will be my last one. I have never forgotten you. I have never not thought of you.”

Day One Hundred and Forty-One

-Just before entering the bathroom, a young boy turned, stared at me, and gave me a brief drum solo on his stomach. Message received, my friend, loud and clear.

-I watched a young girl dance an entrancing combination of disco and Oompa Loompa styles while in line at guest services. Finally, I have witnessed a physical manifestation of my very own soul.

-I sold a man an item marketed as a “performance bath mat,” and I will now be spending the remainder of my days on this earth pondering just what performance he had planned.

-A boy screamed and thrashed to get out of his cart despite his parents firm refusals. As they say, though, stickers soothe the savage breast, and he fell asleep immediately upon receiving one.

-An infant rolled through my lane, each wrist and ankle adorned with flashy yet tasteful charm bracelets. She spent her time kicking and dancing around, making sure to wave her appendages with vigor the likes of a hair metal band, marking her down as my most entertaining and most jangly guest of the night.

-I stuck my tongue out at a crying infant perched upon his father’s shoulder across the store from me. He calmed down instantaneously. Some things in this world never change, and that includes my powers.

-In a moment of silence, I heard a powerful speech flow through the store. Its source could not be found nor, seemingly, stopped. It carried on for several minutes with no hesitation or pausing, never wavering, never faltering. The truth of the moment may never be known, but none present shall ever forget the dramatic reading of Lady Gaga’s “Poker Face” that blessed us this night.

-I was lucky enough to experience the most engaging and thoughtful conversation I’ve had in a long time with a guest tonight. Admittedly, the majority of what she had to say was relayed in gurgles and pops, and she was nine months-old, but I came out of this chat a changed man.

-My new location has lacked something since I arrived, and I have finally been able to put my finger on it: the gaggles of older guests that used to flood my lanes, trying their best. In their place, I now face slews of businesspeople and students, all in too much of a hurry to try st all. Luckily, I have had no shortage of tiny tots and incredible infants gracing my lane. In truth, they are the ones who get me through my shifts, and not a transaction goes by where I do not thank them graciously.