Actually, we were making fun of racists.
Actually, we were making fun of racists.
If you’re in your twenties don’t fucking complain about how old you feel okay
You’re getting progressively less shitty, I promise. People who complain about how old they are come across as incredibly insecure and vain, and that is way, waayyyy more off-putting than a few smile lines and a few goddamn years’ worth of sense.
Older? Yeah. Good.
Once upon a time there was a young boy who liked watching the cows out in the field. One time he even saw a cow who had been hit by a train, and its face and most of its head was entirely gone, but since the brain was still in place, the cow stood, and moved its head around, in a slow and unhurried confusion.
One morning, the boy was walking down the road when he spotted a little girl the size of his thumb running around the freshly-cut grass. He knelt down and squinted, and he saw that she was beautiful. She was wearing a white see-through dress made out of gauze, and nothing else. The boy picked her up and she looked up at him and smiled and shouted “hi!”, not with a squeaky voice, but with a regular tone of voice that sounded very far away.
The boy looked at the little thumb girl and liked her so much that he ate her. He took her home, swallowed her, then washed her down with a tall cool budweiser. And from then on, the little thumb girl lived inside him. He wanted to keep her close to his heart, but failed to realize that he should have snorted her if he really wanted that.
The boy would feel her warmth deep inside him, and tell her stories about his father. He told her about a friend of his father who once got so drunk that he took a massive dump inside the neighbor’s wheelbarrow, and the next morning the wheelbarrow was gone. Another time, he told her that if every single person on earth were to withdraw all the money they saved in the bank, there would only be enough bills for about 3% of the population.
The little girl would eat the chewed up food in his stomach, and play with a marble that he once swallowed. She would sit on the marble with her legs spread and grind her body against the smooth curvature of the sphere. It was nice to sit on the marble, and she tried her best to keep it from passing through the boy’s system.
So the girl ate, and played, and ate some more, until she began to grow. And one afternoon as the boy was lying on the freshly-cut grass, he felt a sharp pain inside him, and with a wet burst of blood, the little girl exploded out of his stomach, stretching the hole she’d made and pushing bones and organs out of the way.
When she got on her feet, she looked down at the boy who had loved her and saw little more than a disaster of gore. Then she turned and ran away. And the boy, he looked up at the sky, wide-eyed, and he was dead.
Y bien merecido lo tenía el cabrón hijo de mil puta.
I need some advice that will require the use of your super ego, so I want you to use your id as hard as you can.
"The idea of a house built for people to lose themselves in it is perhaps stranger than the idea of a man with a bull’s head, but both images complement each other and the image of the labyrinth is convenient for the image of the Minotaur. It is quite fitting that, inside a monstrous house, there should be a monstrous host.
The Minotaur, half bull and half man, was begotten by the love of Pasiphaë, Queen of Crete, with a white bull that Poseidon brought from the sea. Daedalus, author of the artifice that allowed for such intercourse, built the labyrinth destined to jail and hide the monstrous child. This child ate human flesh; for its feeding, the King of Crete annually demanded a tribute from Athens of seven young men and seven young maidens. Theseus decided to save his homeland from such an insult and offered himself voluntarily. Ariadne, the King’s daughter, gave him a thread so that he should not lose his way; the hero killed the Minotaur and escaped the labyrinth.
Ovid, in a verse that attempts to sound ingenious, speaks of the “man half bull and bull half man”; Dante, who knew the words of the ancients, but not their coins and monuments, imagined the Minotaur with a man’s head and a bull’s body (Inferno, XII, 1-30)
The cult of the bull and the double-axe (whose name was labrys, which later allowed for “labyrinth”) was common among pre-Hellenic religions, which celebrated sacred bullfighting. Human figures with bull heads were, judging from mural paintings, among Cretan demonology. It is probable that the Greek fable of the Minotaur is a late and clumsy version of even more ancient myths, the shadow of other dreams, even more atrocious.”
—Jorge Luis Borges, The Book of Imaginary Beings
Would you believe it, Ariadne? said Theseus. The Minotaur barely tried to defend himself.
I don’t translate well to Spanish.
PHILADELPHIA—Aspiring novelist Sandy Bellman took the last step in her personal journey as a professional writer last week when she was hired at a west-side Barnes & Noble. “This has been a big year for me creatively, and getting this was the biggest step yet,” said Bellman whose hiring, according to sources close to the 27-year-old, will almost certainly be her greatest literary achievement. “After all this time, I’m finally part of the world of books.” Bellman is expected to sell her first novel, most likely Khaled Hosseini’s The Kite Runner or James Patterson’s Judge And Jury, shortly after beginning her training shift next Monday.
How can I, that girl standing there,
My attention fix
On Roman or on Russian
Or on Spanish politics?
Yet here’s a travelled man that knows
What he talks about,
And there’s a politician
That has read and thought,
And maybe what they say is true
Of war and war’s alarms,
But O that I were young again
And held her in my arms!
—W. B. Yeats
Molotov - I’m The One