“You can choose not to wear the $1000 suit. I can’t choose not to be a woman. I can’t elect to leave my vagina at home in case someone decides they’re entitled to help themselves to it. And just so you know, I was wearing jeans and a baggie hoodie when I was raped, so yeah, you can go fuck yourself.”—razorirr comments on Wow…never thought about it that way.
Remember months ago when I posted that “Rape culture is…” quote and it got insanely popular? Well, it’s still insanely popular. Over 10k notes at this point and I am incredibly sick of seeing it popping up in my notifications because it’s drowning out response to posts I actually care about. I figured maybe I could make it “private” to shut off the notifications. That didn’t work, and now the post itself is inaccessible—even though it’s not deleted, only private, Tumblr can’t find it and won’t show it to me. Meaning I can’t edit it or delete. I assume only deleting it would shut off the notifications.
Fuck this gay social media website.
Also if you sent my asks recently (or ever) and they haven’t been answered, there’s a slim chance I never got them. I have 20 asks backed up right now that I just haven’t gotten around to answering/deleting but I also got a couple messages (from catbountry and rydell) indicating that they had sent me asks that never arrived. What’s up with that.
“I did make a bunch of money by winning the Netscape Startup Lottery, it’s true. So did most of the early engineers. But the people who made 100x as much as the engineers did? I can tell you for a fact that none of them slept under their desk. If you look at a list of financially successful people from the software industry, I’ll bet you get a very different view of what kind of sleep habits and office hours are successful than the one presented here. So if your goal is to enrich the Arringtons of the world while maybe, if you win the lottery, scooping some of the groundscore that they overlooked, then by all means, bust your ass while the bankers and speculators cheer you on.”—Watch a VC use my name to sell a con. | jwz
Jeeves stressed the first syllable sniffily, indicating his disapproval of the late, unannounced nature of the visit. “Shall I tell him you have gone to bed?”
Bertie, who hadn’t, cocked his head to one side, considering the ceiling. “It’d be jolly rude, wouldn’t it Jeeves?”
“Yes, sir. I shall tell him to go, shall I sir?”
“No, no, no that won’t do Jeeves. Send him in!” Bertie stood, dusting off the front of his trousers. Mr. Goku was a member of the nouveau riche that was slowly worming its way into Bertie’s fine city—usually he rejoiced in a little new blood, especially Americans, with their flat affects and amusing neologisms, but Mr. Goku was something else entirely. His mannerisms were like those of a child with the power of some old world deity coursing through him. Bertie imagined for a moment that this was probably a metaphor for something or other concerning America, but a tune was crowding out whatever the meaning might have been. Likely it hadn’t been very incisive at all. He lowered himself onto his piano bench and tinkled out what bits he knew of “The Entertainer,” leaning into its lopsided rhythms. After a few minutes of this, he felt Jeeves’s silent presence drift back into the room, followed by the heavy clomp of the man who could only be his new houseguest. Bertie declined to look up.
Days off became intolerable after the first few hours of freedom wore off. While the other men on RED team were reliable in battle, their interpersonal skills wore thin on the stress and horror of the war, the constant dust or snow or gravel worming its way into places you couldn’t pay a hooker to touch, waking up every morning feeling like you should be sore, but aren’t—the process had muddled most of them to the point where they salvaged what personality they could in the crap alcohol ration provided by the Company. In a word, they were men after their fathers’ own hearts.
“YOU’RE awful at singin’,” Demo added, feeling a wave of intense pride overtake him over the ferocity of his insult, if not its sharpness; it was an ancient, peculiarly Scottish emotion that had once, in the mists of the past, allowed a pack of psychotic highlands savages to watch the Romans constructing a wall outside their territory and think it was done out of fear.
i wonder how many people have tried to register the username “3liza” and when they were told it was already taken, checked out my blog and were like “this is bullshit. i’d do so much more with this url…”