A skeleton in neon pants. A vampire covered in glowsticks. Through the ecstasy-induced haze you see flashing beams of coloured light hit tombstones, and the moon throbs with a persistent techno beat. Welcome to the raveyard
"Do you not further think that there is an idea of likeness in itself, and another idea of unlikeness, which is the opposite of likeness, and that in these two, you and I and all other things to which we apply the term many, participate-things which participate in likeness become in that degree and manner like; and so far as they participate in unlikeness become in that degree unlike, or both like and unlike in the degree in which they participate in both, Harry?"
We asked kids in a decile 10 school, and a decile one school, to show us what they’re having for lunch.
This paints a pretty gloomy picture of today - Even in a super-amazing-fun-times-awesome-this-is-the-age-of-entitlement-leftists’-dream-no-one-falls-through-the-cracks-welfare society such as NZ there are still a lot of hungry kids come early afternoon.
At my primary school lunchbox politics where absolutely penetrating. There where kids with fresh fruit, kids with coke and Cheetos, and kids with nothing. For the most part, the fresh fruit kids did not sit with the Cheetos kids, and certainly not with the nothing kids. I remember lunchtimes spent munching on a wholegrain bread roll looking wistfully at both the brightly coloured Cheetos packets and at the geometrically laid out lunchboxes of the fresh fruit kids: 1 triangle-cut sandwich, 1 muesli bar, 2 pieces of fruit and maybe some chocolate in a snap-lock bag - wondering why my lunch was always in a bag and seemed so boring. Occasionally I would manage to swap an apple for some Cheetos or maybe a muesli bar, those where pretty good days.
I think that captures my childhood pretty succinctly: It was healthy and filling, but it didn’t have a lunchbox. I guess what I’m trying to say here is, THANKS FOR THE FRUIT MA, AND WHOLEGRAINS ROCK. AND SO DO YOU.
one of the reasons i like meeting people from tumblr irl is that im much funnier online so they’ve got this image in their head of me as this witty motherfucker and all i need to do is not be a gibbering mess and they still think im cool
one of the reasons i like carrying a baby pademelon around in a satchel is that she’s much cuter than me so when i meet people i can be like ‘hey look it’s a baby marsupial doing a thing’ and they’ll be like ‘zomg’ and then forevermore associate me with pademelon based good times and all i need to do is speak in full sentences and not confuse ‘bought’ and ‘brought’ and they still think i’m cool.
And there are millions of teens who read because they are sad and lonely and enraged. They read because they live in an often-terrible world. They read because they believe, despite the callow protestations of certain adults, that books — especially the dark and dangerous ones — will save them.
As a child, I read because books – violent and not, blasphemous and not, terrifying and not – were the most loving and trustworthy things in my life. I read widely, and loved plenty of the classics so, yes, I recognized the domestic terrors faced by Louisa May Alcott’s March sisters. But I became the kid chased by werewolves, vampires, and evil clowns in Stephen King’s books. I read books about monsters and monstrous things, often written with monstrous language, because they taught me how to battle the real monsters in my life.
And now I write books for teenagers because I vividly remember what it felt like to be a teen facing everyday and epic dangers. I don’t write to protect them. It’s far too late for that. I write to give them weapons — in the form of words and ideas — that will help them fight their monsters. I write in blood because I remember what it felt like to bleed.
The mournful four minute pop ballad that speaks directly to my situation!
the song that pries out my heart, ties it to a piece of string, lets the cat bat it around for a bit, then brushes off the dust and cat hair, sews up the more obvious leaks and shoves it back into my chest cavity; bruised and bleedy, but ultimately glad to have had a day out.
I’m drunk with misery but it’s OK because some Canadian dude’s been here before and staked out the turf and he’s totally fine now so I’ll probably be fine too.
I found this crouching in the dark corners of amazon.com
From the blurb: “Blake wants the curvaceous, gorgeous Honey in his bed. Now. He’s lusted (but not loved, let’s get that straight) after the luscious woman for months. True, he looks like a bad-boy biker mixed with a player and, yeah, he’s broken a few things in her bar… But only because the guys were hitting on his girl. With no hope of winning her over in sight, he does what any red-blooded werehedgehog would do in his position. He lies.”
Tony Abbott calls probably-not-Christian asylum seekers 'unChristian', I call him a cunt.
This morning I was reminded of Tony Abbott’s calling asylum seekers ‘unChristian’ a few weeks ago on ABC radio.
This sparked my writing a fairly lengthy tirade that my computer promptly deleted, because my computer is a jerk. So instead of perceptive political commentary noting the impropriety of religious arguments in the asylum debate, in fact, in all Australian politics, and a spicy little number on the failings of the ‘queue jumping’ argument, some profanities;
No shit buddy, most of them aren’t Christians. Neither am I and neither are most of my friends. Neither is 40% of your fucking country. And by the way, fuck you, you vile sectarian, xenophobic race baiting dog. We’ve gotta fuck this guy up somehow or he might actually end up running the country.