The brutal truth is that most people can’t pay the bills by “living their passion.” So what can we do instead?
Curiosity provides life with wonder and excitement beyond our crummy, quotidian routines. A passion for learning, an unqualified commitment to pursuing your interests — and seeking new ones — will carry you through the good times and bad times, the rich times and poor times, the miserable times and happy ones.
So stay curious. Keep learning. Never stop enjoying the wonder of the world, and never lose the curiosity that got you here today, through four years (or more) of long papers and difficult tests, heated discussions and late-night confusions. Your education shouldn’t end with the turn of a tassel, or the reception of a degree.
When you accomplish a goal, are you the type to doubt that your accomplishment is worth acknowledging at all? If you succumb to the zombies of self-doubt, you risk burnout, loss of motivation, and being generally bummed out. Besides that, the zombies are really not good for your self-esteem. I struggle against them myself. Here’s what I’ve come up with to try to help remind myself to be my own cheerleader and celebrate my accomplishments.
“The first two books are adventure stories, about getting people jazzed for revolution. But the third one changes genres and switches into misery porn. It’s about the consequences and the reality of that revolution.
You wanted a war, dear reader? Here is war, up close and personal. Here is the boredom and the fear and the being locked in a “safe” place with no control. Here is Prim dying pointlessly. Here is PTSD. Here is a brainwashed, weaponized version of your beautiful lover who went off to battle and came back a killer. Here are people, fatuous people but people who cared about you and who just happened to be on the wrong side at the wrong time, people who are beaten and kept in chains by your allies. Here are your friends and peers dying screaming in the stinking dark, literally torn to pieces and devoured alive. Here is the man you thought would be your confidante for life and maybe something more, the blood of your fucking family all over his hands. Here is beaten down exhaustion and despair and confusion. Here is everything you wanted, dear reader. Eat it up. Choke it down. Does any of it seem so necessary now?
And for all that price paid, what changes? The old man is dying anyway, he chokes to death on his own blood laughing at you. The old lady just brings the games back. Everything you fought for, perverted by power-hungry politicians. All that changed was the color of the boot and the neck it pressed down on.
Even after righting THAT final wrong, the only happy ending Katniss gets is that she can tell her kids why mommy wakes up screaming at night.
Yeah, the prose isn’t the best. But damn do I love where Collins took the series. It’s not an adventure series about justified vengeance. It’s about the consequences of violence, and the personal and social toll it takes on everybody. She fashioned an intense anti-war story and suckered the audience into it with her thrilling dystopia tales. What a great trick.”—
He—the “mr” makes me assume it’s a he—got it. That’s why I think this trilogy is so brilliant, and this guy got it, though I wouldn’t have in-your-face’d the review so bad. Collins shows the aftermath of revolution so beautifully.
Yet I kept writing these lists of affirmations every day: I am grateful for my talent! I am a good person! I teach this stuff in my Manifestation Yoga workshops, all this stuff about believing in yourself and who you are in the world, who you’re surrounding yourself with, what inspires you, how all of that creates the life we want for ourselves. And it does.
But affirmations do not work all the time. I suffer from anxiety and depression and sometimes all the affirmations in the world don’t help. I still say to myself, in the morning while I am half-asleep, before I have even lurched one foot over the bed: I am safe, I am safe, I am loved, I am loved, I can do this, I can do this.
It’s complicated, the circuitry of the brain and the things we are hard-wired to believe. I know we have the power to change our thoughts but when we are that low to the earth, skimming for love by any means available, when we are literally jonesing for something that is dead (as I was with my father), well, you can affirm all you want but nothing will change.
The fact is that I am struggling. It’s real. It’s in my body from lord knows when, perhaps from my ancestors, perhaps I carried it down from my Romanian grandmother or my Native American great-great grandfather, or perhaps when my father died in the night it left something broken inside of me.
I don’t know. But in my mind I keep hearing Ovid’s quote: “Be patient and tough; someday this pain will be useful to you.” And I keep thinking that instead of hiding who I am, I should share it because maybe my pain will somehow be useful.
Jem isn’t getting a chance. It feels like they’re not putting any real energy into the project because they clearly don’t expect any money to come out of it. And why is that? Because studio suits seem to forget on a daily basis that - hey! women make money now too! So they’re throwing together this slapdash effort, excluding the creator and any female filmmakers (save the DP, Alice Brooks), and they’re crowdsourcing the fans rather than taking the time and money to develop a real screenplay.
There’s something undeniably creepy about big, expansive libraries. The hushed whispers, the almost artificial quiet, and the smell of dusty tomes combine to create a surreal experience. But when it comes to creepy libraries, Harvard University might take the cake… you see, three of its books are bound in human flesh. A few years ago, three separate books were discovered in Harvard University’s library that had particularly strange-looking leather covers. Upon further inspection, it was discovered that the smooth binding was actually human flesh… in one case, skin harvested from a man who was flayed alive. Yep, definitely the creepiest library ever. As it turns out, the practice of using human flesh to bind books was actually pretty popular during the 17th century. It’s referred to as Anthropodermic bibliopegy and proved pretty common when it came to anatomical textbooks. Medical professionals would often use the flesh of cadavers they’d dissected during their research. Waste not, want not, I suppose. Harvard’s creepy books deal with Roman poetry, French philosophy, and a treatise on medieval Spanish law for which the previously mentioned flayed skin was used. The book, Practicarum quaestionum circa leges regias… has a very interesting inscription inside, as The Harvard Crimson reports. The book’s 794th and final page includes an inscription in purple cursive: ‘the bynding of this booke is all that remains of my dear friende Jonas Wright, who was flayed alive by the Wavuma on the Fourth Day of August, 1632. King Mbesa did give me the book, it being one of poore Jonas chiefe possessions, together with ample of his skin to bynd it. Requiescat in pace.’ According to Director of University Libraries Sidney Verba ‘53, there might even be more of the creepy flesh-books out there, but while it’s possible to touch the three identified books in Harvard’s rare book room, the librarians aren’t exactly fond of all the attention they’ve received lately, for obviously reasons. In fact, they’ve made it a point not to actively seek any more macabre volumes. If you decide to head to Harvard and check out the books for yourself, do us a favor - just don’t read them out loud. We all know how that ends.
I had learned a lesson about Western culture: Women who wanted to be taken seriously were supposed to substantiate their seriousness with a studied indifference to appearance. For serious women writers in particular, it was better not to dress well at all, and if you did, then it was best to pretend that you had not put much thought into it. If you spoke of fashion, it had to be either with apology or with the slightest of sneers. The further your choices were from the mainstream, the better. The only circumstance under which caring about clothes was acceptable was when making a statement, creating an image of some sort to be edgy, eclectic, counterculture. It could not merely be about taking pleasure in clothes.
Matt Smith was not the first Doctor I watched, but he was the first Doctor that I started watching live, and he sort of accidentally became my Doctor. When I thought of the Doctor, he was the Doctor I imagined. He was the Doctor I quoted, and he was the Doctor I cosplayed. But in recent episodes I’d become increasingly uncomfortable with the kind of person my Doctor was becoming. I’d hoped “The Time of the Doctor” would be a return to and celebration of the Doctor I’d originally loved. Unfortunately, it was a compilation of all the worst traits the Eleventh Doctor has displayed, and all of the most problematic tropes about women which have been employed repeatedly during Steven Moffat’s tenure as showrunner. Even Matt Smith’s moving speech and Karen Gillan’s surprise return as Amy Pond couldn’t save this episode.
It’s taken me quite a while to write this post because I honestly couldn’t bring myself to even begin addressing the myriad of problems in this episode. Say what you like about Russell T. Davies, he sure wasn’t a saint and his scripts did occasionally employ problematic tropes, but his scripts weren’t as openly and unapologetically misogynistic as Moffat’s have become. It’s as if Moffat created a list of all the complaints his episodes have elicited and decided to provoke every single one of those again in this episode.
So, with great reluctance, below the jump is my review of “The Time of the Doctor.”
what they did with the ages in the harry potter movies really weirds me out
lily and james died when they were twenty-one. let me say that again. lily and james died when they were twenty-one. the movies made them look like they were in their forties which took away from the tragedy of…
As much as I love the actors they cast, this has always bothered me.
If you think a woman in a tan vinyl bra and underwear, grabbing her crotch and grinding up on a dance partner is raunchy, trashy, and offensive but you don’t think her dance partner is raunchy, trashy, or offensive as he sings a song about “blurred” lines of consent and…
I found myself in the embrace of a near-stranger who was overwhelmed with joy just because inconsequential, strange, and silly little me had lived to see another day. I surrendered to her startling affection and took part in the impromptu celebration of my own beating heart.
“Margaret Hale is one of the few ninteenth-century heroines who are not only described, but shown as being vitally interested in public questions, and as having and expressing, in equal conversation with men, definite and respect-worthy opinions on these questions.”—Nancy D. Mann, Intelligence and Self-Awareness in “North and South”: A Matter of Sex and Class (via burgundians)
Because to men, a key is a device to open something. For women, it’s a weapon we hold between our fingers when we’re walking alone at night.
Because the biggest insult for a guy is to be called a “pussy,” a “little bitch” or a “girl.” From here on out, being called a “pussy” is an effing badge of honor.
Because last month, my politics professor asked the class if women should have equal representation in the Supreme Court, and only three out of 42 people raised their hands.
Because rape jokes are still a thing.
Because despite being equally broke college kids, guys are still expected to pay for dates, drinks and flowers.
Because as a legit student group, Campus Fellowship does not allow women to lead anything involving men. Look, I know Eve was dumb about the whole apple and snake thing, but I think we can agree having a vagina does not directly impact your ability to lead a
Because it’s assumed that if you are nice to a girl, she owes you sex — therefore, if she turns you down, she’s a bitch who’s put you in the “friend zone.” Sorry, bro, women are not machines you put kindness coins into until sex falls out.
Because only 29 percent of American women identify as feminist, and in the words of author Caitlin Moran, “What part of ‘liberation for women’ is not for you? Is it freedom to vote? The right not to be owned by the man you marry? The campaign for equal pay? Did all that good shit get on your nerves? Or were you just drunk at the time
of the survey?”
Because when people hear the term feminist, they honestly think of women burning bras. Dude, have you ever bought a bra? No one would burn them because they’re freaking
Because Rush Limbaugh.
Because we now have a record number of women in the Senate … which is a measly 20 out of 100. Congrats, USA, we’ve gone up to 78th place for women’s political representation, still below China, Rwanda and Iraq.
Because recently I had a discussion with a couple of well-meaning Drake University guys, and they literally could not fathom how catcalling a woman walking down University Avenue is creepy and sexist.
Could. Not. Fathom.
Because on average, the tenured male professors at Drake make more than the tenured female professors.
Because more people on campus complain about chalked statistics regarding sexual assault than complain about the existence of sexual assault. Priorities? Have them.
Because 138 House Republicans voted against the Violence Against Women Act. All 138 felt it shouldn’t provide support for Native women, LGBT people or immigrant women. I’m kind of confused by this, because I thought LGBT people and women of color were also human beings.
Because a girl was roofied last semester at a local campus bar, and I heard someone say they think she should have been more careful. Being drugged is her fault, not the fault of the person who put drugs in her drink?
Because Chris Brown beat Rihanna so badly she was hospitalized, yet he still has fans and bestselling songs and a tattoo of an abused woman on his neck.
Because out of 7 billion people on the planet, more than 1 billion women will be raped or beaten in their lifetimes. Women and girls have their clitorises cut out, acid thrown on them and broken bottles shoved up them as an act of war. Every second of every day. Every corner of the Earth.
Because the other day, another friend of mine told me she was raped, and I can no longer count on both my hands the number of friends who have told me they’ve been sexually assaulted. Words can’t express how scared I am that I’m getting used to this.
Because a brief survey of reality will tell you that we do not live in a world that values all people equally and that sucks in real, very scary ways. Because you know we live in a sexist world when an awesome thing with the name “feminism” has a weird connotation. Because if I have kids someday, I want my son to be able to have emotions and play dress up, and I want my daughter to climb trees and care more about what’s in her head than what’s on it. Because I don’t want her to carry keys between her fingers at night to
Because feminism is for everybody, and this is your official invitation.
For Berry and the others to be rescued, in other words, two things had to happen: she had to never forget who she was, and that who she was mattered; and Ramsey needed to not care who she might be at all—to think that all that mattered was that a woman was trapped behind a door that wouldn’t open, and to walk onto the porch.
The world probably doesn’t categorically suck any more right now than it did in medieval times when you only lived for three decades and were more likely to die by dysentery (if you were lucky). But lately it’s sure as hell seemed like we’ve been dealt existential angst in spades. Not that it matters either way, because these are the times we live in, and, like everyone else before us, we have to figure out how to deal with this shit in our own way, knowing what we now know. But how?
Robi promised to write me said awesome obit even if he had to make the whole thing up. And just in case he dies first, he penned this:
"Kim R- W- was once classy dame. But not one of those uppity kinds. No, sir. She was a real boot kicking, fun loving, lady-when-she-needed-to-be type of broad. She was usually described as ‘sweet when she wanted to be, but watch out when she didn’t.’
Known as the “Snarky Bibliophile on Drury Lane,” but modest to a fault at times, most people don’t realize that the Disney princess Belle was actually based upon Kim. At least the awesome, smart, snarky, pretty part. That hapless victim part? “Eff that. I would have taken the library and burned the place down if he pulled that,” Kim said after seeing her movie portrayal.
Kim was a main proponent of the “Read or Punch” campaign, whereas, in a role-reversing twist of days of nerds past, she instituted the once controversial, but now highly touted practice of punching people in the face for not reading. Due to her commitment to this doctrine, libraries are now full of money, books, and ice packs, and are thriving in a modern day Renaissance of literacy.
Kim left this earth on ___, because she had reached such a level of awesomeness that the world had realized it could no longer contain her. It was reported she spontaneously combusted into a flash of bright light, and a tome detailing her life was left in her place.
She is survived by her husband, Chuck, who honestly does not know what to do now that she’s gone. Seriously. She also left a plethora of friends and family who feel like the glue of their life has left them, as well as a shit ton of people all across the world who are left to wallow in their sadness and think, “I never even got to meet her. What will my life become?” She was preceded in glorious earth exits by her Wonder Twin, and they are no doubt ‘tearing it up’ in whatever badass plane of existence they are in now. Until they get kicked out of that one too.
There will be no visitation. Why? Because if you haven’t already seen and met Kim, then you don’t deserve to now. Suck for you. Deal with it. In lieu of flowers, go buy a damn book and read it, then give it to a kid. Both the kid and mankind will thank you for it.”
I still don’t know if I want children. Frankly, I’m not sure I ever want to love anything that much
"It might not be a fear of kids themselves, as in truth I usually get along with them pretty well. They like my tattoos and my uncomplicated child/adult face. They identify with my orange shoes. I look like I would let them get away with stuff, and I do. My fear of having children is that, frankly, I just don’t want to love anyone that much. I have my own problems with love, and I have processed and played the same games for a lifetime, but what if I had to do that with someone I actually MADE?! (Or went all the way to China and adopted. This is not a joke — I have long thought I would adopt one of those baby girls from China, because really, who’s going to know the difference?)
I don’t know if I could stand that kind of commitment, or, if I am really honest, I don’t think I could handle being that vulnerable to someone else. My child would have my heart completely — having never truly given that over, in all my relationships in my life, starting with myself, I wouldn’t even know where to begin.”
So this video started going around my facebook today, with about a dozen of my female friends sharing the link with comments like, and “Everyone needs to see this”, and “All girls should watch this,” and “This made me cry.” And I’m not trying to shame those girls! I definitely understand why they would do so. And I don’t want to be a killjoy. But as I clicked the link and started watching the video, I started to feel a slight sense of discomfort. I couldn’t put my finger on why that was, exactly, but it continued throughout the whole thing. After watching the video several more times, I have some thoughts…
“"Do what you love" is privileged advice that ignores the fact that the majority of the world’s population works to get food and housing, not for emotional or spiritual fulfillment. And even among the most socioeconomically privileged piece of the population—the segment that this advice is usually targeted to—it causes an awful lot of angst and even shame over not loving your career when people are telling you that you should.”—Why You Shouldn’t Follow Your Passion By Alison Green
A while ago, I penned a fairly angry response to something circulating on the internet – the 21 Habits of Happy People. It pissed me off beyond belief, that there was an inference that if you weren’t Happy, you simply weren’t doing the right things.
“For readers interested in learning more about how not to be labeled as registered sex offenders, a good first step is not to rape unconscious women, no matter how good your grades are. Regardless of the strength of your GPA (weighted or unweighted), if you commit rape, there is a possibility you may someday be convicted of a sex crime. This is because of your decision to commit a sex crime instead of going for a walk, or reading a book by Cormac McCarthy. Your ability to perform calculus or play football is generally not taken into consideration in a court of law. Should you prefer to be known as “Good student and excellent football player Trent Mays” rather than “Convicted sex offender Trent Mays,” try stressing the studying and tackling and giving the sex crimes a miss altogether.”—
Mallory Ortberg, laying waste to fools on GAWKER, today, regarding CNN’s offensively lovey-dovey coverage of the two high school football stars who were convicted on Sunday of sexually assaulting a blacked-out drunk 16 year old girl from a neighboring town at a party, and then sharing pictures of her on the internet.
I think it’s reasonable to say that, given the football culture of Steubenville, OH and the notorious difficulty of proving sexual assault even when the victim REMEMBERS WHAT HAPPENED, it is likely that what these jocks did to this other human would have become simply a dark part of Steubenville high school folklore, were it not for the digital trail of photos, tweets, and texts that the bystanders and assaulters themselves put out into the world.
SO THANK YOU, NERDS, FOR INVENTING SOCIAL MEDIA.
And thank you, Mallory and Manhattan snark-media for reminding some people—including CNN, apparently—what personal responsibility actually means.