Bacteria | Left-Handed Toons
Comic URL: http://www.lefthandedtoons.com/1728/
Being a woman is kind of like being a cyclist in a city where all the cars represent men. You’re supposed to be able to share the road equally with cars, but that’s not how it works. The roads are built for cars and you spend a great deal of physical and mental energy being defensive and trying not to get hurt. Some of the cars WANT you to get hurt. They think you don’t have any place on the road at all. And if you do get hurt by a car, everyone makes excuses that it’s your fault.
A friend of a friend (via bettycockroach)
Sad because it’s true.
This might be the most perfect analogy I’ve ever read.
Why I Am Not Coming In To Work Today
I will have to take the day off today because:
☐ It’s December and the streets are papier-mached with wet bronze leaves and it’s so dark outside that the cars have their headlights on at 3pm
☐ I have recently been through a breakup, or I have been through a breakup at any time in my life really, and I woke up today with the absolute conviction that I will never be loved again
☐ A dog looked at me
☐ I got a text from someone for whom I feel a mix of concern and frustration and recognition and longing that is both more and less than romance
☐ Someone made a joke about dead pets meeting you in heaven
☐ Daylight savings time
☐ I passed a knot of flowers that were so bright they glowed through the dim grey water of the day and when was anything in my life last that luminous?
☐ Girls are too pretty
☐ For the first time I genuinely comprehend that there is not enough time to have all the lives I wanted
☐ I accidentally listened to Leonard Cohen
I am submitting the following documentation:
☐ A scrap of an old lover’s favorite flannel shirt
☐ Trembling cupped hands full of rainwater
☐ Light angling over the face of a brownstone at 4 on a winter afternoon
☐ A blunt-edged ticket stub from a movie of which I remember nothing except how soft her hands were
☐ A crumbling copy of my favorite novel from childhood
☐ The universe
☐ The peachy glow of a sodium lamp far ahead down an icy pitch-dark path
I think I just need to:
☐ Stare at a cup of tea held in nerveless fingers and slowly leaching heat
☐ Watch the sun glow ruby through the dogwood leaves until I regain some capacity to be comforted by beauty
☐ Read old emails from someone who loved me because he knew nothing
☐ Move to Omaha without telling anyone and find work as a sympathetic bartender named Roxy
☐ Learn to live alongside the fundamental meaningless of existence, not just mine but everyone’s
☐ Get a drastic haircut
☐ Listen to Tegan and Sara’s “Heartthrob” on repeat for 24 hours
☐ Scream into a pillow until my throat feels like it’s going to split
I will be back to work once:
☐ I can get out of this empty bathtub
☐ It is spring
☐ Someone gorgeous has brought me warm milk
☐ The consequences of being terribly drunk start to seem more grim than the consequences of not being terribly drunk
☐ I have watched every episode of Key & Peele
will always reblog this
Thanks, Ryan and bunny Shortstack! Ryan writes, “My bun Shortstack is unclear on what trash cans are for, all he cared about was the banana peel in there.”
this rabbit looks exactly like my rabbit
I know you are reading this poem
late, before leaving your office
of the one intense yellow lamp-spot and the darkening window
in the lassitude of a building faded to quiet
long after rush-hour. I know you are reading this poem
standing up in a bookstore far from the ocean
on a grey day of early spring, faint flakes driven
across the plains’ enormous spaces around you.
I know you are reading this poem
in a room where too much has happened for you to bear
where the bedclothes lie in stagnant coils on the bed
and the open valise speaks of flight
but you cannot leave yet. I know you are reading this poem
as the underground train loses momentum and before running
up the stairs
toward a new kind of love
your life has never allowed.
I know you are reading this poem by the light
of the television screen where soundless images jerk and slide
while you wait for the newscast from the intifada.
I know you are reading this poem in a waiting-room
of eyes met and unmeeting, of identity with strangers.
I know you are reading this poem by fluorescent light
in the boredom and fatigue of the young who are counted out,
count themselves out, at too early an age. I know
you are reading this poem through your failing sight, the thick
lens enlarging these letters beyond all meaning yet you read on
because even the alphabet is precious.
I know you are reading this poem as you pace beside the stove
warming milk, a crying child on your shoulder, a book in your
because life is short and you too are thirsty.
I know you are reading this poem which is not in your language
guessing at some words while others keep you reading
and I want to know which words they are.
I know you are reading this poem listening for something, torn
between bitterness and hope
turning back once again to the task you cannot refuse.
I know you are reading this poem because there is nothing else
left to read
there where you have landed, stripped as you are.
—Adrienne Rich, from An Atlas of the Difficult World
All right, well, it’s been a while since I last posted a TV show drinking game so I decided to give it another go. I know I posted a different Portlandia drinking game in the past but since that version was made before the start of season 2, I decided the Watchin’ Stuff Portlandia drinking game could use an upgrade. So, try your had at some mixology or fill your mason jar with your favorite whiskey and have some fun with the Watchin’ Stuff (New) Portlandia drinking game. But remember, don’t drink and bike.
The Bywater, LA - #6272