screamed many extremes
extremists deem themselves exempt
from rational rationale fashionably
same way followers
but I sin
but we all do don’t we
but we all fall down so
ignore ignorance
tear up the agreements
throw up your set
followers followers
all of em
follow em
there and there
they show evidence
of closure
show what we knew
in the first place
placating ourselves
patronizing them
all the while the world lines up
in single file fashion
towards the waiting room
at the end of everything
where we will be
someone else’s new world
and for some rise above
to be also these servants
of new world order risen
from the ashes of damp foreheads
crammed together
holding each other
at least with each other
in the end,
and we will see each other
maybe again?
if all works out
the way these angry masses demand
their error will not follow them anyhow
for we will be all but vanquished,
but they will not stamp out
what I have left for us
that will take the end of their world as well
for even our world was a new world
that we banged out of molten steel,
drying concrete, and paved asphalt
that we swore not to give back to anyone
but we sold it for an automobile in every garage
and a telephone in every transfixed hand
and an honest job killing brown boys
for every boy (even brown boys) that wants it
or even every man that wants it
or even petty criminals that want reform
you’ll be a hero as long as you
come back in a an American flag covered casket
the smart ones could wind up in politics
kiss the right ass, kiss a few babies
shake a few hands, give a few handjobs
don’t tell it exactly how it is,
tell it exactly as they say
as they say,
be on point
look sharp
and the part
use the words
the American people
want to hear,
Mr. American Hero Man
be as sincere as you cannot be



You’re sitting in the grass on the side of a dirt road in the middle of Nebraska, staring angrily at your two older brothers. “You guys,” you say again, “This isn’t funny! I’m serious. My finals are only three days away!” You turn your gaze to Sam, the more responsible (in your mind) brother. “Sammy, a little help here?”

Sam smiles that smile that drives you crazy. It’s placating, and proof that he’s about to tell you something you’re not going to want to hear. He pulls a fresh beer out of the cooler resting in the shade at his feet, and sits beside you. “Listen, Y/N. I get it. You’re stressed and you’re worried. But if my time at Stanford taught me anything, it’s that you have to know when to just relax.” He gestures at the surrounding countryside. “I mean, look at this. The air, the sun, this tree,” he gestures above you, “This is what life is really about. I know you want to do well, and I promise you - you will. You’re smarter than both me and Dean.”

“It doesn’t matter how smart I am,” you grumble. “What matters is whether or not I know the answers to the questions. And I’m not going to know the answers if I don’t study.”

Dean sits on the other side of you, offering you an orange soda - one of those fancy ones you love so much. You always beg for them when you stop at gas stations. The glass bottle is cold in your hand as you twist the top off.

“Listen,“ Dean says softly, not looking at you as he talks. "You’re going to be fine. You’re the genius of the family - isn’t that what dad always said? And even if you don’t ace the tests, what’s the worst thing that could happen?”

You get ready to answer as Sam gently pulls on your shoulder, encouraging you to lean back and watch the sky through the boughs of the old oak you’re sitting under. “The worst thing is that you could end up here, with us,” Sam says, and you can hear the smile in his voice. “And I’ve gotta tell you, that’s not half bad for a worst case scenario.”
Flare's October Cover Star Lea Michele Wants to Fix Your Life

“You can’t have that soda—you know that, right?” It’s 20 minutes into my interview with Lea Michele and she’s already telling me what to do. The Glee actress does not approve of the can of Coke I’m nursing mid-morning on the set of our cover shoot at Milk Studios in Los Angeles. Normally, anyone who informs me about what I can or can’t consume is told to f-ck right off or, at minimum, given major evils, but something strange—near magical, even—happens when it’s coming from Michele. “I know, I know,” I mutter, head down and all rueful yearning for a positive life change. This isn’t me simply placating the talent under the watchful eye of a publicist; it’s a genuine reaction. In less than half an hour, Michele has actually made me want to be a better person—she has that effect on people.

The 28-year-old New Yorker is the type of multi-hyphenate whose CV makes you feel like a slovenly monster wasting your life away on frivolous garbage (and Coke). Take September 22, for example: on that day alone, Michele has a buzzy new Ryan Murphy series, Scream Queens, debuting on City, as well as a book coming out, You First: Journal Your Way to Your Best Life (Crown, $24). And she crushed last year just as hard, starring in Glee, releasing a bestselling memoir, Brunette Ambition, and dropping a successful pop album, Louder.

Michele is fiercely determined, and she craves wild success not only for herself but for you, too: she wants everyone to achieve a New Age-y ideal of their “best self.” Or so trumpets You First, a throwback to the guided self-help journals popularized by Oprah Winfrey in the ’90s. She appears to be a wee Oprah in the making. The book tackles fitness, diet, friendships and relationships and includes hundreds of soul-searching questions rendered in a girly font. They range from “Is there one food group (meat, dairy, carbs) that dominated your week?” to “What’s the one thing you’d most like to put your energy toward?” Lined pink pages abound for you to commit your goals to paper. My own goal? To figure out how Michele has created the best best life. And so, I turn to You First in an attempt to find the method to her mini moguldom—one Michele mantra at a time.

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After All These Years, I Find I’m OK By Myself

My nana is 87 years old. She’s strong, hilarious, and still whip-smart for hers or any age. If you’ve ever seen any television show with that “feisty old lady” archetype, she’s that, but better. She’ll make fun of your pants or pull a killer prank on you, but will cook and bring you dinner when you’re sick. She genuinely makes me laugh so hard, and not that polite “placate the old lady” laugh, but true belly laughs, laughs where I’m kinda mad I didn’t think of the same joke. She adores Frank Sinatra and Nat “King” Cole and Brook Benton, but is more up on new stuff than my parents or others half her age, and will talk to me about recent movies or TV shows or what famous people she thinks are probably jerks. My granddaddy is two years younger than her, but had to be put in a home a few months ago; a lifetime of extreme laziness caught up with him, and one day he was literally unable to get out of bed or use the bathroom by himself, and my nana, as strong as she is, wasn’t equipped to deal with that on her own. (For decades – and with two fake hips – my nana has walked three miles a day, every day, at a park near her house, and since his retirement, despite warnings from doctors that his muscles would atrophy, my granddaddy has done nothing but sit in a recliner in front of the television.)

My granddaddy was and has always been awful to my nana. I don’t feel comfortable going into too much detail in a Tumblr post, but what I will say is that she waited on him hand and foot all day every day during their 60-plus years of marriage – quite literally, my granddaddy doesn’t know how to pump gas or write a check, because my nana did everything. She would take his car and fill it up on weekends so it would be ready for the work week, she did all of the shopping, she paid all of the bills; in fact, he had never stepped inside of a grocery store until a few years after he’d retired. He treated her as his servant, not his wife, and this never changed; he mellowed slightly with time, still barking orders at her, just perhaps less frequently. During visits as an adult, I’d yell back at him, pointing out he could at least say “please” or “thank you” to her after demanding she fetch him coffee or turn up the television even louder than its already ear-splitting volume, or I’d refuse to take over my nana’s perceived “duties” for her until he asked me nicely.

It’s a sad fact of life that we will all come full circle and will have to be taken care of in the end just as we were in the beginning; but for me, because of what I’ve witnessed of their relationship my whole life, the most heartbreaking part of my granddaddy’s placement in a nursing home is how despondent it made my nana. She fell into a pit of despair, not because she missed him necessarily, but because after spending more than half a century catering to this person’s every whim, she felt her life now lacked purpose. Who was she if she wasn’t this man’s housekeeper? This woman, so full of life and spark and humor and joy, felt useless without someone to take care of.

I’m 36. I got divorced when I was 28, after five years of marriage, and although I have had three boyfriends since, none got serious enough to move into the cohabitation stage. I’ve lived alone most of my life, and other than the occasional out-of-town visits from friends, I go to sleep alone in an empty apartment every night and wake up alone every day. I now have this in common with my nana.

I spoke with her for a while the other day, almost trying to kick her ass into triumphant gear. “Nana!” I exclaimed, “This is awesome! No one is there bossing you around any longer! Read your books in peace! Do your crosswords without the loud-ass TV ruining your concentration!” (She loves crossword puzzles; she buys books of crossword puzzles stacks at a time.)
“But don’t you get lonely?” she asked me.
“I do, sure,” I admitted. “But for the most part, it’s liberating – for you especially, your life is yours now! Fill your days however you like! You should be out there partying! The thought of you being sad about this destroys me; I wish you’d see the positive side of this,” I pleaded.
“You seem to always be out there doing something… you do have a lot of fun, don’t you?” she laughed.
“I do, nana.”
“I think I will, too.”

teamtaem asked:

I'm all about wontaek. it gets me in my heart places whenever leo is "threatening" ravi with violence and ravi placates him with just a hug (see: pinkeu pinkeu leo, the show 5 second interview, the show warmup interview). so cute.

i know what you mean !! xDD my favourite one was the pinkeu pinkeu one hahahaha ~ ♡ ♡ 

pyroteknich asked:

Dear the Birthday (perhaps the Corn, but the Birthday may be a bit of a better go-between), while cleaning out a closet I inherited, I was surprised to discover a Scarecrow (the Scarecrow was also surprised). The Scarecrow ( for Scarecrow has no gender, it simply is) would like to petition the Birthday and the Corn for permission to reside in the Corn, as closets are not good places for Scarecrow.




Klaine Road Trip 2015 - Seattle, WA

“Birds, Coffee Beans, and Breakfast in Bed”

Written by teaandleaves

Read on AO3

3200 words 

Summer 2015 - Masterpost

Stop # 21

Kurt bundles lower into his raincoat, sipping some hot chocolate with a stubborn, aggressive expression. Blaine comes up to him from behind, braving the wind and rain of the ferry deck.

“What are you doing?” Blaine murmurs. “This is Seattle. You should be drinking coffee, not hot chocolate.”

“No, the last thing I should be doing is drinking coffee, because all that’s available is cheap ferry coffee and honestly I don’t trust any food product that uses a whale as its logo.”

“I thought the whale was cute,” mentions Blaine.

Kurt turns around and a globe of water pools on the lip of his raincoat and splashes at their feet, challenging Blaine to go on. Blaine gives his husband a comforting, placating smile.

“Don’t look at me like that,” says Kurt.

“You’re only upset,” says Blaine, “because it’s raining. But it’s good it’s raining, because you and I have been driving nonstop and we could use a few days of…” He puts his hands on Kurt’s slim waist. “…staying in, and drinking coffee, and admiring the skyline from bed.”

Kurt considers this. Then he takes Blaine’s face in his hands and kisses him. Their noses are freezing and wet, and it feels nice to nuzzle into each other.

“Love you,” murmurs Kurt.

Blaine’s heart jumps. “I love you too.”

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