hey here’s a video I made for class it’s not that serious but I hope y’all like it

(Source: stoneponi)


Tonight it was just me and the baby and I kept looking at him and getting really sad. He’s becoming more of a person and I know to say I feel a little bad about that is so morose it’s funny, but I do. He is starting to get preferences and to want things, more and more, beyond food. He’s wildly happy most of the time but sometimes he will just stare quietly and look sad if I ignore him and I want to cry. If I put him down for a minute to pee or to get a glass of water or god forbid, eat a meal, he gets so spastic and scrambly when I pick him up, his arms tight around my neck, all of him gasping and kicking. Babies do not “play it cool,” haha. Dustin thinks he is learning to miss me, though everything seems to say that he won’t develop that for a couple more months (separation anxiety). “But remember, our baby is a genius.”

My son loves me so much, is what I’m saying, and it’s making me sad, reflexively. I love him too, and it’s like, Oh god, ok, all this and love, too? Just when I thought there wasn’t room for anything else. Dustin and were talking about baby love the other day, and I was trying to say how it feels very close to romantic love for me, minus the sexual attraction obviously, but like the physical need to be close to / affectionate with him is more similar than I would have guessed. The idea that I once felt this with my own mother is wild to think about, and really sad because where is that now? I have faint memories of loving the way she smelled, too, and of wanting to rub my face on her upper arm, or remarking on how soft her skin was. Does she still feel that way with me? I can’t even think about it.

As the baby moves from alien intruder who could slip into death at any moment to person who is funny and needy and beautiful and charming and alive, the intimacy is intrusive and surprising. Sometimes he looks at me across the chasm between his barely-there personhood and my own, and I am shocked. And a little creeped out, to be honest, like he must be a ghost or God or some universal something or other, communing with me on the changing table.

It’s been wild to experience new love alongside the, for me, intense personal transformative shit of becoming a mother. They should be one and the same I guess and maybe they are. But on the one hand I feel this wild desire to be alone and to think and to write. I feel a stronger Self than I ever have, almost as a defensive move I suspect, as I feel like the world wants me to give it up. Catholics talk about “dying to self” when you get married, and certainly when you have kids. I am worried someone is going to snatch my Self out from under me, so I’m scrambling and kicking my legs and wrapping my arms around its neck.

And then my baby is reclining in his Boppy and staring at me and his face breaks out into a smile and we laugh together and I think, Oh fuck, dude, you are really in for it, out here with us. I am so so sorry.

But seriously, write a book that I can buy.


When the Doctor calls Clara her phone shows a picture of a stick insect. With a top hat.

Thanks for this shout-out to my documented attraction to Peter Capaldi’s sexy bug vibes, Doctor Who writers!


When the Doctor calls Clara her phone shows a picture of a stick insect. With a top hat.

Thanks for this shout-out to my documented attraction to Peter Capaldi’s sexy bug vibes, Doctor Who writers!

(via cups-of-tea-and-history)

White is for witching, a colour to be worn so that all other colours can enter you, so that you may use them. At a pinch, cream will do.
White is for Witching, Helen Oyeyemi (via everythingiread)

Aspirational Identities of Autumn 2014

Black cat in a backyard in October

Peter O’Toole on top of the train in Lawrence of Arabiaboots, fabrics, dangerous egomania

Rigidly moral spinster in 19th-century English village

Mildred Pierce-era Joan Crawford. Pinstriped suit, red lipstick. Drinking bourbon neat and wearing hats and handing men checks on the promise they’ll stay out of my life

Stars Hollow, Connecticut: the whole town

Tarot card reader on a Jersey Shore boardwalk who makes up soothing fortunes for lonely teenage girls

Feared, all-knowing crone who lives in the woods and eschews human companionship but knows a lot of healing spells and will help you out if you need it and also makes great apple cakes

Selena Gomez’s Instagram

Person who knows how to surf and goes surfing. And, like, early in the morning you’re leaving for work and they walk in with their hair a little damp and you’re like, “What’s up?” and they’re like, “Great waves today, man.”

Agent Dale Cooper

A woman I know who was asked if there was anything she did not fear and responded, without missing a beat, “Money.”



barty crouch had to grade tests

(via alexamonster)

guyplayfair said: If you could hug any Doctor Who writer, which one would you hug? I think personally I would go for Robert Shearman, he looks cuddly and that beard would probably feel nice rubbing on your head. Russell T Davies also looks quite huggable but his propensity towards suits and lack of facial hair might not make it as pleasurable as Mr Shearman.


I would like to hug all the women who have written for Doctor Who since 2008. All of them! I would start with…

What, nobody?  That can’t be right…. (goes off, puzzled).

Neil Gaiman’s pretty great.

There are American presidents who have come in for less scrutiny than Lena Dunham. There are heads of major banks whose work to erode the possibility of middle and working class stability in the United States has drawn less criticism than Girls. There are sitting Supreme Court justices, men who have recently disemboweled the Voting Rights Act, whose intelligence has been insulted less sharply than that of a 28-year-old woman who created and stars in a show on HBO.
Rebecca Traister on Lena Dunham


Steve desperately trying to high five Bucky in Captain America: The Winter Soldier

(via kellysue)