Señor Prom

When I lived in Minnesota, one of our neighbors really rubbed me the wrong way. Her husband and children were fine human beings, but this woman was controlling in the worst way, hovering around with a distinct air of unwarranted superiority stinking up the street. She got on the wrong side of preteen, angry MacKenzie too many times, and her manner bothered me until I moved away.
Whenever their family went away on vacation, she usually asked me to visit the house twice a day to feed the cat and fish, to bring the mail and newspapers in from the street, and to turn the lights on or off. I’m allergic to cats, but I was willing to house-sit for her because I usually got paid pretty well and it was a tiny point of pride in my small, shriveled heart that she trusted me to look after her beloved feline and her children’s fish. 
One year, they went away traveling for two weeks. That meant two weeks of visiting twice daily to care for pets that were not mine (a heavy commitment for a kid with kid business to take care of), two weeks of turning on and off every light in their cavernous house, two weeks of hanging out in a house for hours on end where I sneezed incessantly and my head clouded up to the point of painful headaches. It was longer than I had ever committed to take care of someone else’s animals and home, but the thought of having pocket money to spend for the rest of the summer was a shining beacon of hope to ensure I completed my duties.
When they returned from their vacation, I walked up the street once again to let them know that one of the fish was missing from the tank because he had died when his fin had gotten stuck in the tank filter, trapping him against it and suffocating him. While I was there, I received my payment from the woman of the house.
It wasn’t the usual check in an envelope with a thank-you card.
Oh, no.
It was a pair of light blue Crocs, two sizes too big and too hideous to ever be worn. Nothing else.

And my parents wonder why I have trust issues. 

Anonymous asked: when you publicly rail against the grammar of others, it becomes...public. if you were reaming yourself for your own grammar, that would be another thing entirely. i'm referring to broader issues like gender equality, too, something you show much less public interest in than you do in GRAMMAR or how much you hate ANNE HATHAWAY. i'm not saying the world would change; i'm just saying you would.

(cont.) also, going “that’s my opinion! don’t challenge it!” is a super dumb argument. kinda figured an english major could do better than that.

I personally feel like “public” on the Internet and “public” IRL are two different things, but we probably don’t see eye-to-eye there. When you took that tweet of mine and applied it to grammar, something to which I was not initially intending to refer, was that you attempting to…change…me? I’m not going to apologize for being bothered by improper usage, as I can’t really help that it bothers me. You seem to take enormous issue with my “public” defense of grammar—have I ever corrected you to your face? If I have, I do sincerely apologize. In my old age I’m beginning to realize that I can only control my actions and my usage and my language, not that of others, and I feel like a serious dingus for my attempts to try to change others, at least grammar-wise, in the past.

I do not “ream” myself for my own grammar because, in my academic writing where it matters most, my grammar and usage are flawless. If you’d like a writing sample, I’d be more than happy to provide one.

For the record, I do show some amount of “public interest” (in regards to this ‘blog, I suppose) in gender equality—several of my posts over the past year or so have been responses to things I saw on tumblr or elsewhere that were troubling to me as far as their portrayal of gender roles and perceptions, but if you’re going to read selectively I can’t very well control that.

I don’t exactly understand what you’re getting at with the end of your first message when you say “I’m not saying the world would change; I’m just saying you would.” What is the catalyst for this change? I am genuinely confused here—why are you so concerned with changing me? Wouldn’t it be more satisfying for you to let me plod on in my aimless sticklerism so I can continue to apparently entertain you with my fruitless grammarian antics? 

The initial point I was trying to get at with my tweet was that I don’t appreciate sports fanaticism. I think that energy could be better focused elsewhere. Where else that may be is up to interpretation—you’re the one who chose to snidely apply it to grammar by coming to my ask box.
 
Finally, I never said that you can’t challenge my opinion. Everyone is entitled to his or her own opinion, and I appreciate your coming to me with yours. As this is my tumblr, I feel entitled to express my own opinions in and upon it. Your description of my “argument” as “super dumb” is spot-on, as I find this entire exchange to be “super dumb” as well.

Once again, I’m glad we understand one another. Have a nice evening.  

Anonymous asked: imagine if people cared about important things as much as they care about grammar. "but grammar is important." no. s t o p

Oh, good. I saw this one coming.
Go right on ahead and apply a tweet of mine to something that I personally think is important. That’s about what Twitter is for, right? Expressing personal opinions in whatever serious or ironic capacity floats one’s boat? It’s so nice that you’ve cottoned on.
It isn’t as if it’s a secret that I find proper grammar and syntax to be of more importance in my life than who won or lost the latest sports-game-match. I was generally (not specifically—the fault here lies with me, it’s true) referring to broader issues like gender equality, but interpret as you will. I can’t make you care about the things I care about (like grammar), just as you can’t make me stop caring about the things I care about. Okay? Okay.
Would you like to address any of my other tweets? The ones about butts or pizza? No?
I’m glad we understand one another, Greyface.  

Edit: The beautiful irony of this ask is that people do not really care about grammar. If people cared about “important things” as much as they care about grammar…not very much would change, I think. So I will continue to think grammar is important, to count myself among these happy few (and because I can’t help it), and you can continue to really really care about who scored so many goal-unit-baskets this season. This is fine with me. I hope it’s fine with you.

Blorange

On Friday, I graduated from Northeastern University with my BA in English. In 100 days, I’ll be flying to Scotland to attend the University of Glasgow for my Master’s in modern literature. In the meantime, I’m back in Connecticut to spend time with my family before I leave the country for over a year, and this means I had to clean and move out of the room in my Boston apartment where I’d lived for two years. While cleaning out my desk, I came across a stack of things that various members of my family had sent in the mail: newspaper clippings about Scotland or an author I like from my dad, magazine articles about publishing and cheap recipes from my mom, letters and movie news about The Hobbit from my sister. 
I’ve always loved snail mail. My best friend in the entire world, who moved back to England when I moved to Minnesota from California, kept in touch with me through pen pal-style letters for years; whenever my school had a program to sign up for a random international pen pal, I always applied and participated with wild enthusiasm. There’s something about checking the mailbox and finding a nice white envelope with your name and a postmark from a foreign place on it—ripping open that envelope to get at the words inside is better than birthdays, in my mind. 
I didn’t realize it until I was a sappy, blubbering pile of tears on my rug, surrounded by letters and clippings, but the fact that members of my family think of me when they’re reading something to the point that they snip it out of whatever publication and seal it up with a note to mail to me—that’s crazy awesome. It’s like all those creased pages from magazines and newspapers are physical evidence of my presence in their minds, and that’s comforting when you’re miles and hours away.
I’ll have to start reading the newspapers and magazines when I’m in Scotland so I can return the favor.

If you have luck, take it, care for it

My roommates and I went up to our roof last night to join the sky-high celebrations that erupted throughout Boston after news spread that Tsarnaev had been taken into custody, and our silly little skyline has never looked more beautiful in the fast-fading light of 9 PM. People were shouting and hooting and literally dancing on rooftops, and the streets were flooded with human relief and good feelings. To everyone on the Internette and otherwise who has reached out and checked up on me this week: Boston is mostly okay, so that means I am too. 

kuebiko

have you got any spackling paste or putty?
glue or tape or thread?

I ask because
I appear to be full of chinks and gaps
and slits of light

like an old pair of jeans
worn thin at the knees
smelling slightly of love
and strongly of lonely

it would seem that all I am is in between

Distressed Beethoven

You are as bumpy as a log

I’ve always had a thing for menswear: how proper one looks in a well-executed suit, the rules and tips that go along with dressing well, the subtle accessories and details that round out any ensemble. In the sixth grade, I wore a tie to school every single day without fail—most of the time it was an Avril Lavigne-esque tie-and-t-shirt combo, very expressive of my inner teen turmoil. I’ve been quietly collecting waistcoats and blazers for years, recently my necktie collection doubled in size, and I had always dreamed of wearing variations on a three piece suit, so when the spring semester started I sort of thought “fuck it,” and made my dreams a reality. This means I’ve been stepping out more often than not of late in a button-down Oxford shirt fastened with a necktie (always fashioned in a double Windsor) with a waistcoat or sweater vest buttoned over top, and a blazer thrown over that; my bottom half is always covered in either black skinny jeans or one of my many stupidly short skirts. This is my girl version of menswear, and I always feel like such a boss when I wear my haberdashery; I carry myself differently because looking fly bolsters my confidence, and I get the Manhattan Once-over thrown my way far more often when I’m dressed to the nines.
Last week, I was headed to my literature class from the student center, my big headphones blasting and my boots making a mess of the puddles on the ground. I was wearing my favorite combination of argyle sweater vest, vintage navy double-breasted blazer, bow-tie, and white corduroys. Suddenly, there was a finger in my sternum, and I looked up into the brown eyes of some dude. I slammed my headphones down from my head to my neck and said to him,
“What the fuck?”
To my great surprise, a smile played at the corner of his unshaven lip. 
“Why are you wearing a bow-tie?” the guy asked, all six-foot-five of him standing directly in my way and towering over me. I was late. This was not cool.
“Because I like to look nice.” I replied, trying to step past him, but he put his foot in my way. 
“Do you have an interview, or something?”
“No! I just like to look nice. Step off.” He tried to put his foot in my way again, but I jumped over his knee and clomp-clomped away, my big ol’ boot heels echoing loudly on the quad cobblestones. 
I was pretty blown away by this encounter. Certainly not everyone dresses like this on the daily, but I don’t remember being scheduled for a fucking interrogation, and I’ve definitely never had anyone stop me in my tracks by literally poking me in the collarbone before. It’s fine to wonder and ask questions—someone on campus recently thought I was a visiting professor and asked me about it and we had ourselves a hearty little guffaw—but it’s not cool to be a rude, assumptive asshole. When I’m wondering about what someone is wearing, I usually just go on wondering because interrupting their walk by pestering them with questions would be annoying; when I really really like something that someone is wearing, I’ll usually try to tell them, but I’ll do so as unobtrusively as possible. Being handed a compliment on your outfit is nice; being interrogated at finger-point about your clothing is weird and invasive and uncomfortable—did this guy think I was going to stop and have a nice little conversation with him? Was he hoping to dissuade me from wearing a bow-tie ever again? He at least seemed to take my negative attitude in stride, as if he understood that what he was doing was impolite and sociopathic behavior—was he trying to get a reaction? How hard is it to just be a regular human and let “why is that girl wearing a bow-tie?” fester in your brain rather than getting in her face and interrogating her?
I hope I see him around sometime, and I hope he’s eating something so I can walk up and put my fingers in his food and go “why? Why are you eating this?”  

your-favourite-humming-noise asked: /post/42021232978 It's not someone yelling it at your face and sitting back smugly thinking that they're great because they're male and you're meek and feminine. It's somebody paying a few simple compliments. I don't think you need to freak out over a post that was never intended to cause hurt. The person who wrote that wanted to make girls feel a little better, I think you should just appreciate the sentiment and not rip apart the person who was just trying to make someone smile for a second.

Based on this response, I don’t know if you understand precisely why this photo is problematic. Firstly, the picture is of a book, Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul II, to be precise. This list of “reasoning” is published in a popular series of books that millions of people read. Why is this an issue? I thought I explained quite nicely (though ironically) in my original comments, but I’ll walk you through it again. Hold my hand, and don’t forget to look both ways before you reevaluate your internalized perceptions of gender roles.

This list is not some person “paying a few simple compliments” (and even if it were, I do not find anything on this list to be particularly complimentary). This list is a perfect example of how deeply and thoroughly patriarchy has infected our culture. This list is patronizing. Am I supposed to be flattered that my argumentativeness is perceived as “cute,” rather than valid, according to this list? Am I supposed to appreciate the fact that this list casts all women as pugnacious, dramatic, and weak (points 14, 18, and 20)? 

You assert that my response is a “freak out”—any emotional response is immediately over-the-top, right? Showing my passionate disagreement with this list is a big no-no because I’m a girl and I can’t possibly separate emotion from reason, right?

You also suggest that “the person who wrote that wanted to make girls feel a little better.” Make girls feel better about what? Why do women need to feel better? Could it be that we are constantly confused and pulled in a multitude of various directions by the standards of the patriarchal society in which we live? Do we need to be made to feel better because we beat ourselves down for not living up to some ideal that has never been fully explained to us? Why don’t I feel any better after reading this list?

You think that I should appreciate the sentiment, and I think you should take a step back and read what this list is really saying and give “appreciating the sentiment” a try yourself. Or, if you so choose, don’t. Don’t think. Don’t reflect. Read this list, smile, and go on about your day. 

luffings

It’s frustrating, sometimes, to see people my age setting parameters for their love lives.
I’ve always thought that if you try to define the love you’re looking for—if you try to know what it looks like before you see it, if you try to understand how it feels before you feel it, if you think you’ll know the words to say before you need to say them, if you have a script that you’ve learned and memorized down to the lighting cues and emotive pauses—your love might pass you by.
Late at night, when you’re sitting on the subway and you feel an arm brush your shoulder, and you look up into bright eyes whose gaze seems to hug yours for just a moment before their owner whisks them away in a gust of movement out the doors and down the platform, remember that looking for something or someone specific in love is like wearing blinders to shut out all the other nicens going by.
So often do I encounter shopping lists of characteristics that one’s love absolutely must have, be it skinny jeans or floppy hair, and while those lists are being hastily written, love is outside walking its dog and hoping for some company. Open your doors and windows and tear up your pages of definitions. Quit ruining love by wanting it so bad, and stop going by a checklist of traits. Don’t worry, don’t fret. Let love happen where it will.

“ Don’t you know I’m a villain?
Every night I’m out killin’, sending everyone runnin’ like children.
I know why you’re mad at me: I’ve got demon eyes, and they’re looking right through your anatomy—into your deepest fears.
Baby, I’m not from here, I’m from the Nightosphere.
To me, you’re clear; transparent.
You’ve got a thing for me, girl.
It’s apparent.
— Marshall Lee the Vampire King

» Writing about reading about writing about reading

operation-critique:

I’m more than halfway through my senior year in college, and tumblr is a godsend: there is no better tool for rapid-fire procrastination, and I’ve carefully curated the dashboard of my main blog into a collection of art, photography, comics, news, and discussion to satisfy my interest in…

I’m doing a directed study in Digital Humanities as part of my final semester at Northeastern, and after a month and change of research and reading on the topic, I’ve devised a project that will manifest itself as a tumblr blog. My posts will be akin to case studies on various aspects of critical response culture on the Internet with a particular focus on tumblr and fandom activity—next week’s is going to focus on Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, the wild popularity of the Sherlock Holmes character, and the tumblr fandoms involved with Doyle’s works. If you have any interest in keeping up with this little school project of mine, feel free to follow. I’m hoping that, eventually, the work I’m doing at operation-critique will evolve into a thesis that will hold some importance in the academic space; this is an area of discourse in which I’m intensely interested (discussion and response in casual or non-academic contexts), and the opportunity to devote a large chunk of my time to this study is seriously exciting.