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Grandmaster Marta Przeździecka Bartel.

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[“Years ago, the kindly fry cook who trained me to waitress at a Los Angeles truck stop used to say: Never make an unnecessary trip; if you don’t have to walk fast, walk slow; if you don’t have to walk, stand. But at Jerry’s the effort of distinguishing necessary from unnecessary and urgent from whenever would itself be too much of an energy drain. The only thing to do is to treat each shift as a one-time-only emergency: you’ve got fifty starving people out there, lying scattered on the battlefield, so get out there and feed them! Forget that you will have to do this again tomorrow, forget that you will have to be alert enough to dodge the drunks on the drive home tonight—just burn, burn, burn! Ideally, at some point you enter what servers call a “rhythm” and psychologists term a “flow state,” where signals pass from the sense organs directly to the muscles, bypassing the cerebral cortex, and a Zen-like emptiness sets in. I’m on a 2:00–10:00 P.M. shift now, and a male server from the morning shift tells me about the time he “pulled a triple”—three shifts in a row, all the way around the clock—and then got off and had a drink and met this girl, and maybe he shouldn’t tell me this, but they had sex right then and there and it was like beautiful. But there’s another capacity of the neuromuscular system, which is pain. I start tossing back drugstore-brand ibuprofens as if they were vitamin C, four before each shift, because an old mouse-related repetitive-stress injury in my upper back has come back to full-spasm strength, thanks to the tray carrying. In my ordinary life, this level of disability might justify a day of ice packs and stretching. Here I comfort myself with the Aleve commercial where the cute blue-collar guy asks: If you quit after working four hours, what would your boss say? And the not-so-cute blue-collar guy, who’s lugging a metal beam on his back, answers: He’d fire me, that’s what. But fortunately, the commercial tells us, we workers can exert the same kind of authority over our painkillers that our bosses exert over us. If Tylenol doesn’t want to work for more than four hours, you just fire its ass and switch to Aleve.”]

barbara ehrenreich, from nickel and dimed: on (not) getting by in america, 2002

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Everyone told me testosterone would make me angrier. My family has a habit of attributing any anger I feel these days to the testosterone. I didn't feel any angrier, but my mother would still tell me that no, I am angrier now, and testosterone did make me angrier and *she* could tell.

A week or two ago, I got my proof to the contrary. I'd been having a difficult day, woke up late, and had to rush out the door, ran into minor inconvenience after minor inconvenience, and then the straw broke the camel's back.

I wrote out the kind of angry vindictive seething text message I used to write constantly. I didn't send it, of course, I copied it out and pasted it in the folder of my notes where I put all my rage venting.

And then I thought.

Huh, it's been a little while since I did that. And I checked the time and dates on my previous notes. The last one was a few days before I started testosterone.

And scrolling back, I noticed that they were *constant* at least one a week for *years* I used to get so angry that I would get the serious urge to say cruel hurtful things to or about people I cared about on a near-daily basis. I didn't realize how big of a problem it was until all of a sudden I hadn't gotten that angry in Eleven Months. Nearly a YEAR.

And then I realized in my rush to get out the door in the morning, I hadn't taken my T shot. My testosterone was the lowest it's been since August.

All of a sudden, I had demonstrable proof that testosterone really did make me less angry. That all that "you may not think you're any angrier but you are" was bullshit.

I feel like I should be angrier about this than I am. I know how angry I used to get. About everything. I just felt it again for the first time in a while. For once, it would feel justified to be that angry. But I'm not. I'm not mad. I'm just... disappointed, I guess.

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i hate it when i cant even write a poem about something because its too obvious. like in the airbnb i was at i guess it used to be a kids room cause you could see the imprint of one little glow in the dark star that had been missed and painted over in landlord white. like that's a poem already what's the point

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i hate it when i cant even write a poem about something because its too obvious. like in the airbnb i was at i guess it used to be a kids room cause you could see the imprint of one little glow in the dark star that had been missed and painted over in landlord white. like that's a poem already what's the point

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she jack off my trades till im master of none

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me: oughghgh okay you gotta go OUT today and run errands like an adult, pick up prints, buy floss for the beans cross stitches you sell, maybe some groceries....

also me: oh 3pm's not that late! plenty of time to spend on a cross stitch project!

several hours later, it is already dark out:

me:..... shit.

(ty to @presidentdragon for a sentence that goes extremely hard)

also idk what the cheapest way to get this pattern out to yall would be is there like, a public drive folder somewhere where you can upload free pattern pdfs?

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this shit fucked me up

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you are 16. you are talking with a gay man in his 50s or 60s, a friend, huge and gentle with a scarf and short fluffy curls of gray hair, who has directed you in two plays staged in your mid-size artsy town. (he has not yet asked you to be in his production of The Laramie Project which will change your life. this conversation will also change your life.)

he is talking about theatre. he is talking about theatre when he was younger. he says, "of course, it was AIDS then." in the pause, you ask him. clumsy and quiet and 16 and "straight," you ask him. what was it like.

he takes a moment in which his face is not like a person's face. "there was a time," he says, "i'm not sure how long, years. when i went to a funeral every weekend." he tells you about two funerals in a day, and choosing between friends when you couldn't make it to both. he does not look at you, he looks at them. his wet grey gaze is so clear that you start to see ghosts. it will be years before you understand why it feels like your grief too. why the ghosts call you family.

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Cozy Cave

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He squeeze

(via)

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I'm working on tweaking Tam's design a bit and I gave her textured hair and I really like how it looks so far (⁠ᵔ⁠ᴥ⁠ᵔ⁠)

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