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ollie-oxen-free · 7 years

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Fucking FanFiction.net, Man

Thanks to @crushingonsans for tagging me in this because hot damn if this wasn’t fun to do. mine aren’t as good, but whatever. there’s only so much a man can do :’c

Razz (SFS)

Fell (UFP)

Lust (ULS)

Pink (ULP)

Sans (UTS)

Error

Blue (USS)

Papyrus (UTP)

Stretch (USP)

Red (UFS)

Slim (SFP)

Ink

-(1) and (7) are in a happy relationship until (7) dumps (1) for (9). (1), brokenhearted, goes on one date with (11), has an unhappy breakup with (12), then follows the wise advice of (5) and finds true love with (3).

Razz and Blue are in a happy relationship until Blue dumps Razz for Stretch. Razz, brokenhearted, goes on one date with Slim, has an unhappy breakup with Ink, then follows the wise advice of Sans and finds true love with Lust.

I mean…… I don’t know man,,,,.,.,. I was excited for a split second with the rottenberry and then it fucked me over (although i do like razz/lust)

-If you wrote a Song-fic about Eight, what song would you choose?

(Papyrus)

he he

I’ve had this one for a while in all honesty.

-3 told you that she will soon be getting married to 2. What is your reaction?

(Lust, Fell)

*looks at crush and fresh’s roommate bros rp* cool

-When was the last time you read a fic about Five?

(Sans)

Hmm i mean,..,., idk man its hard to find a good fic with this character in it, he’s just so rare i mean.,.,

-6 kidnapped you, why is this?

(Error)

Hey crush, we both got kidnapped by Error, high five! also it’s probably bc im very gay, ngl

-Does anyone on your friends list consider Three hot?

(Lust)

I mean some people may be in denial about it but im pretty sure that everyone thinks that he’s hot lmfao

-If you wrote a One/Six/Twelve fic, what warning would it have?

(Razz, Error, Ink)

In all honesty if i did it would be Razz getting kidnapped by Error for being a “glitch of a glitch” so maybe kidnapping? Though it would probably involve a lot of memes and bad humor too so maybe not too much bad? Mostly just Razz being annoyed that the supposed god-like beings of the mulitverse fight and argue like little children.

-6 is extremely pissed off about something, why is this? And what will you do?

(Error)

He’s always angry so im not gonna ever grace this one with a response.

-Five/Nine or Five/Ten?

(Sans/Stretch or Sans/Red)

the second, definitely the second one, im glad at least something in this fucking nightmare is normal, jesus shit

-You and 9 get trapped in an elevator together. What happens? And who are the other random people with you two?

(Stretch)

I swear to god if i hear one more pun about elevators i will not hesitate to kill myself

-Would 2 and 6 make a good couple?

(Fell, Error)

,,,,.,.,.,.,..,,.,.no.

-8 confessed to be a part of your family.

(Papyrus)

welcome home, son

-4 and 5 are having an argument. Why is this?

(Pink, Sans)

“Stop teaching my bro how to make sexy spaghetti!”

“Well, it’s that or how to be successful in the royal harem. Which would you prefer?”

“I’m tired of finding condoms in my pasta, do whatever the hell you want.”

-Is there any such thing as One/Eight fluff?

(Razz, Papyrus)

i think i read a fic about it before once, but it was less fluff and more Paps calling Razz out for his shit or something of the like

-2 writes you a love song, plays it for you, and then kisses you on the cheek.

(Fell)

you’re drunk, go home buddy

-What would happen if Seven walked in on Two and Twelve kissing?

(Blue, Fell, Ink)

I mean i like to think that when Blue walks in on anyone kissing he immediately begins to critique their form and then rates their passion on a scale of one to ten, so take that as you will

-Do you think Four is hot?

(Pink)

yes

-7 cooked you dinner.

(Blue)

oh thank god, a night where i dont have to eat cold ravioli from a can or undercooked ramen god bless

-Suggest a title for Seven/Twelve hurt/comfort fic?

(Blue/Ink)

The Colors We Show

-9 and 1 accidentally get hooked up on a dating website and are forced to go on a date together.

(Stretch, Razz)

They both take one look at each other and then immediately run away, Razz going “to the bathroom” and Stretch jumping out of the nearest window. Blue and Slim are sitting in the bushes outside the restaurant and wondering just how their plan went this wrong.

-8 gets angry and starts cussing at 6 very loudly. 7 is watching it all and is interested…but why is this?

(Papyrus, Error, Blue)

Papyrus is cussing. End of story.

-Do you recall any fics about 9?

(Stretch)

*looks at the huge fucking pile about Stretch being a creepy fucker* yea, im aware of a few of them

-You are about to do something that will make you feel very embarrassed. Will 9 comfort you?

(Stretch)

this bitch would encourage me to do it, honestly

-Does anyone on your friends list read 3?

(Lust)

i mean, we all have our guilty pleasures. Read: of fucking course.

-Would anyone one of your friends list write about Two/Four/Five?

(Fell, Pink, Sans)

i have never seen this and thinking about it gives me a headache. Maybe Galli would? They’re all about rarepairs (and they’re also really great too so go check them out)

-You’re lying on the beach peacefully, and then you turn your head to see 1, 2, and 9, by the water wearing speedos.

(Razz, Fell, Stretch)

*discreetly pulls out my phone and takes a picture*

-It’s storming outside and 4 allowed you to stay with her at her place until it blows over. And your reaction to this kind gesture is?

(Lust)

Put your dick back in your pants I’m walking home in this fucking tornado, bitch.

-Have you read a 6 / 11 fanfic before?

(Error, Slim)

No, and i never want to

-5 wakes you up in the middle of the night.

(Sans)

go the fuck to sleep you bitch, i hate you and your fucking off-kilter sleeping habits

-1 asks to talk to you privately. When you are both alone, he admits to you that he is gay.

(Razz)

no.,..,.,? really.,..,, wow i,..,.,,., never would have,.,.,.,., guessed

-5 gave you a teddy bear.

(Sans)

it has a sound box in it so that every time you squeeze it, the bear makes a fart noise. Thanks, sans

-You and 10 go out for a picnic. Everything is peaceful until 2 crashes it by showing up and inviting you to go hang out at a cafe. Would you go with 2 or stay with 10?

(Red, Fell)

,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,..,,,..,......i mean,,..,.,.,..,.,..,.,.,.dont make me answer this, im passing

-1 walked in on you while you were showering. What is your reaction?

(Razz)

i mean i’d be cool bc this shit happens all the time with my housemates, but im honestly not sure how well Razz would react

-What would happen if Twelve got Eight pregnant?

(Ink, Papyrus)

*megalovania playing in the distance* *paperjam quietly cursing bc “for fucks sake, not again, hope you dont abandon this kid too”*

-You catch 10 looking at questionable material on the internet.

(Red)

*google search bar is open with the history being just the word “tiddy” 278 times*

-Make up a summary of a 3/10 fanfic.

(Lust/Red)

“Red had picked him up off the street, one time, just looking for a night of fun. His Boss didn’t approve of his escapades, of course, but when you’re the center of a crime ring, not much you do is ever approved of. He’d become accustomed to seeing the scantily-clad skeleton walking the streets, a sultry gaze and ecto-body formed, letting himself be pulled and used in any way for a wad of cash. Maybe that was why he was so surprised to be walking past a flowershop one day and seeing the guy standing in the window, smelling a large bouquet. Cleaned up, not covered in various fluids of previous customers and dirt from when he was rejected and thrown against the ground, he looked really, really cute.

Fuck. Boss was gonna kill him.”

And now i want to write/read it. Great. I’m already swamped with shit so if anyone wants to pick this up then feel welcome

-All the listed characters get into a very epic and all-out battle. Who will be the last one standing?

*papyrus standing over eleven other unconscious bodies* “NYEH!”

-7 is having relationship problems, 4 tries to help him out but her advice isn’t helpful. Your thoughts about this predicament?

(Blue, Pink)

“I don’t think that I’m the best at making Sexy Spaghetti.”

“Then try making, erm, Tantalizing Tacos!”

“I don’t think that’s the best idea either.”

-Do any of your friends write or draw Eleven?

(Slim)

I mean.,,., not really.,.,.,., my poor meme-ing son doesn’t get enough love, imo. There’s a few fics abt him, but not a lot where he’s extremely prominent.

#stupid txt #this was fun tho #i feel my middle schooler phase coming through with a vengance

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writingguide003-blog · 5 years

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How Nell Scovell survived male-dominated TV writers' rooms

New Post has been published on https://writingguideto.com/must-see/how-nell-scovell-survived-male-dominated-tv-writers-rooms/

How Nell Scovell survived male-dominated TV writers' rooms

She worked on everything from The Simpsons to Charmed and encountered casting couches, bigotry and bullying along the way

Nell Scovell has a lot to teach the next generation of TV writers: how to break the ice on a new set by cracking your dirtiest joke, how writing the episode of The Simpsons where Homer eats a deadly blowfish allowed her comedy to get serious, how she screwed up hiring on the first season of Sabrina the Teenage Witch, and how to select used film studio furniture thats less likely to be covered in bodily fluids. (Answer: pick floral fabric, not leather.) Yes, the casting couch is real which, as Scovell writes in her new memoir Just the Funny Parts, is a cutesy name that sounds a lot better than rape sofa and yes, early in her career, the head writer of variety show The Smothers Brothers Comedy Hour aggressively maneuvered her on one, commanding her not to muss his toupee.

Its a startling anecdote, and perfectly timed to todays #MeToo movement and our global conversation about women in the workplace, especially as Scovell also penned Rose McGowans first season on Charmed and co-wrote Sheryl Sandbergs bestseller Lean In. Im a little sad that they actually came up with the metaphor of waves for feminism, says Scovell on the phone from Los Angeles. By definition, a wave goes in and it comes out. I would really like it to be a tsunami that creates a flood that forever changes the landscape.

In the pages leading up to the violation, Scovell, the only woman writing for the Smothers Brothers, already loathes this misogynist who cut her out of meetings by hosting boys-only parties for the rest of the male staff. Their sole encounter is confusing, cold, unwanted and quick, and when its over, Scovell is fired. But even at the time, she was able to take control of the trauma by reframing the beats into a bleak joke, and when she recounts it today, Scovell gets to write the brutal punchline. She never saw that boss again, and probably never will, since I dont get to Branson, Missouri, much.

Nell Scovell in 1972. Photograph: Courtesy of the author

If women could sleep their way to the top, thered be a lot more women at the top, quotes Scovell. That one-liner belongs to Gloria Steinem funny women come in all forms. And comedy writers should come in all forms. The talents who inspired Scovell ranged from the maniacal Groucho Marx and absurdist Albert Brooks to dazzling Myrna Loy and deadpan Jane Curtin. Beams Scovell: I was pretty strait-laced, so Jane Curtin showed me you could be very professional and funny at the same time.

That her heroes were all also white is a struggle Scovell sees with clear eyes, critiquing herself sharply in the book for not hiring more comedians of color in the mid-90s when she became a showrunner. Later, while assembling another female-led show, Scovell catches herself worrying that the five female actors in the cast would get into on-set catfights a stereotype that couldnt have been more wrong. Sighs Scovell: Were all biased, were all raised in this culture.

You want a diverse writers room not because its the fair thing to do, or the right thing to do, but because its the best thing to do for your show, says Scovell. Ive seen that to be true.

The Coach writing staff. Photograph: Courtesy of the author

Yet, for much of her TV career, shes been the only woman in the room. She used to twist her isolation into a compliment. Rarity meant she was exceptional. Later, she realized that she also just fit the mold as a white, straight, Ivy League-educated jock whod covered sports for the Harvard Crimson. Plus, as she writes, People say, Dress for the job you want, and since I wanted a job that guys had, I dressed like a guy.

Still, laughs Scovell, while her unathletic male friends grumbled about their agents dragging them to hockey games, she never got invited to a single match. Instead, she praises Penn Jillette for welcoming her to join a group adventure to an X-rated strip show.

Let someone make their own choice about what makes them feel comfortable, says Scovell. I always say, Im your colleague, not your wife you can say the craziest things in front of me. She was glad the California supreme court judged that certain types of crass jokes on the set of Friends did not qualify as sexual harassment.

We need appropriate behavior, but also not to think the way to get to that is by having no behavior at all, says Scovell. Otherwise, both men and women are locked into an unhealthy gender dynamic that eventually marginalizes women and comedy.

Nell Scovell. Photograph: PR

She saw that play out during the Bill Clinton scandal when men became self-conscious about being alone with women in the office. Shes seeing it again with Mike Pence and his dumb rule. And she lived it herself as a young late-night writer when she avoided speaking to David Letterman in fear her colleagues would think she was trying to flirt her way to becoming one of Daves Girls. Lettermans dalliances with employees were an open secret for decades after she quit and eventually resulted in the host being blackmailed and investigated for creating a hostile workplace environment, though the network ultimately concluded there was no wrongdoing. Of that power dynamic, Scovell calls Letterman the bully who makes you punch him. Later, when Lean In became a hit, she sent him a copy in Finnish with a teasing inscription that hed never read it anyway.

Since then, Scovell has gone on to write gags for everyone from Barack Obama (Johnny Carsons timing), Hillary Clinton (She does self-depreciation beautifully) and Mark Zuckerberg, the embattled Facebook CEO who could stand to win friends with a good quip. Does she have any he could use? Laughs Scovell, Im not touching that question! Like every entertainment career, public success has been matched by private setbacks rejected jokes, harsh script notes, canceled pilots and inJust the Funny Parts, she drags her flubs into the spotlight, printing a list of every project shes worked on so aspiring writers can see an honest percentage of hits to failures, along with full pages of sitcom drafts with her boss criticisms scribbled in the margins.

Her hurdles are oddly encouraging. So is her harshest piece of advice: dont follow your dreams, follow your talent. Thats like the meanest thing you could say to a high school student, says Scovell. But its true. Shes learned firsthand that sometimes a show works better when you pause the comedy and allow people to get real, citing what she calls the tuna fish sandwich moment on the Mary Tyler Moore Show when Mary and Rhoda would have a quiet beat to establish their friendship before the story hurtled them into chaos.

I think empathy is undervalued in a lot of these comedy writers rooms, says Scovell. And in the culture, too. In that spirit, she sent Letterman a copy of Just the Funny Parts in English. Im sure he has not read it, says Scovell. But he sent me back a lovely thank you note.

Just the Funny Parts is out now in the US and will be released in the UK on 3 May

Read more: http://www.theguardian.com/us

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hoorayfornicepeople-blog · 7 years

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February 26, 2018

Where to begin? Probably with a deep breath. Two months from today, I will be on a plane back to the States, which means I have reached the half way point. Time certainly doesn’t slow down. Today I went to the immigration office in Kampala to swap my tourist visa out for a student visa, symbolic of some sort of greater permanence, of this becoming a kind of home and less of a quick stop along the way.

This week is probably also the busiest week of the semester so far (or so it feels). Last week was spring break, which I spent on my rural homestay, with a family in Soroti, in the Serere district of Northern Uganda. We left last Friday on the 16th and returned just last night (Sunday). The week left me with an awful lot to process through, which made jumping into this busy week quite challenging. Today, I struggled to balance the need to prioritize processing, with some of the pressing academic tasks that needed to be done. This has been a consistent thread this semester, but it felt particularly heightened today. I spent the week totally unplugged from technology and the rest of the world and reentry last night brought me 169 new emails and zero desire to read any of them. The emotional energy required to talk with people and explain my week to them proved difficult to find. Many of you have already responded to my inability to explain with understanding and grace.

Tonight, in an attempt to sort through the emails remaining unread from last night, I read the notes from the first La Vida training, which happened last week while I was away. (Update in case I haven’t told you— headed to the Adirondack’s to Sherpa in August!!) Per usual with God’s timing, the “devo thought” from the training was so poignant and relevant to my inner dialogue that I could have cried. It was taken from Elton Trueblood:

“The man who supposes that he has no time to pray or to reflect, because of social tasks which are urgent and numerous, will soon find that he has become fundamentally unproductive, because he will have separated his life from his roots….A man has made a step toward a genuine maturity when he realizes that, though he ought to perform kind and just acts, the greatest gift he can give others consist in being a radiant and encouraging person. What we are is more significant in the long run, than what we do. It is impossible for a man to give what he does not have.”

Yesterday, Will had reminded me to give myself permission to prioritize my mental, emotional, spiritual health/need for processing and reflection, even if that meant temporarily setting aside an assignment or other academic task. You know me enough to know that this advice is a tough pill for me to swallow, even though I know it’s true. Today, it was abundantly clear to me that lack of processing, even briefly, was leaving me “fundamentally unproductive,” no matter how much I tried to discipline myself. And so here I am, engaging in one of the most cathartic exercises I’ve ever known, writing. As usual, I am grateful for your willingness to sit patiently and listen while I attempt to sort through the richness of this experience and put it into words.

Spring Break 2k18… last year during spring break there was a giant blizzard. This year, in Sortoti, the average weekly temperature was somewhere around 100 degrees (not even hyperbolizing here). I went into the week expecting I would sleep in a hut, slaughter a chicken, carry water on my head, and milk a cow. I did none of the above. There’s a lesson on perception and expectations in there. When I was dropped off on Saturday, my host mama matter-of-factly informed me— “This week, it will be too hot for activities, but we will prepare food, eat, and sit.” That turned out to be an incredibly accurate synopsis of the week. In addition to the heat, we are currently on the tail end of dry season, which contributed to the lack of activity, since my host parents primarily farm. The third and final factor that shaped the level of activity of the week was that both of my host parents are in their 70s, incredibly strong and fit, but still doing less physically demanding work at this stage of life.

However, here are some things that I did get to do:

Bucket bathed… a lot

Drank 4,000 Nalgenes a day (don’t worry Mom, I stayed hydrated)

Rested

Star gazed

Ate food

Went to church

Visited the village center

Learned to remove the internal organs of a chicken prior to cooking it

Washed dishes

Did laundry

Drank tea

Swept and mopped the house

Learned to cook a lot of things in the outdoor kitchen— posho, lots of different kinds of potatoes, soup, greens, millet/potato/sorghum bread…

Constructed an underground oven and cooked sweet potatoes in it

Rested

Read 600+ pages (spread between three books)

Sat in silence

Listened to the radio

Beat, winnowed, and separated millet

Rested

Ate more food

Visited the neighbors

Sewed pillowcases

Shelled G-nuts

Picked, cut, and ate jackfruit

Spent too much time in the pit latrine after eating jackfruit

Watched thunderstorms from the porch (It rained four nights in a row. Before leaving for the week, Eddie told us the mzungus always bring the rain to Soroti. I thought it was a crazy superstition, but it turned out to be absolutely right.)

Drank more tea

Rested

Picked and ate fresh oranges

My mama’s favorite phrase was “you go rest now,” since my room was like an oven during the day, this usually meant finding the shadiest spot and reading my book or journaling, rather than taking a nap. In combination with the amount of time I already spent sitting in silence with my host parents, or by myself in between other activities, this was wild. Before leaving, I asked people to pray for my ability to be present. God responded by providing opportunities to be present in excess. Retrospectively, the time that I had this week to reflect, contemplate, learn, and rest was truly valuable, but my impatience made it difficult to recognize in the moment. I experienced a week of simplicity, with little urgency. A culture not enslaved to clock time or schedules, but guided by the needs of the present moment, subsistence, and the daily rhythm of the earth. It was simultaneously one of the most challenging, defining, and enriching (still convincing myself of the last part) parts of the week.

The week included some of my most challenging experiences in communicating cross-culturally– navigating difficult conversations, pushing myself not to be dismissive of a differences of opinion rooted in cultural conditioning, doing my best to practice humility and openness, and learning that I have an accent that is at times hard to understand. This is something I still need to unpack, but you can ask me about it if you’re curious.

Much of what I learned this week came through lots of observation and listening. I learned a lot about the historical and current politics of Northern Uganda and it’s rocky relationship with President Museveni, who punishes the region by withholding government resources or using discriminatory policies, because of the imbalance of power based in tribal/ethnic divisions. I learned about theology, community, he education system, marriage, death, parenting, family, environment, land and agriculture, politics, and history all as they’re shaped by the culture and context of Northern Uganda. Detailing each of these would take an incredible number of words.

I also learned about some of the most prominent poverty related issues Ugandans are experiencing, particularly related to education and medical care. Serere is and has been one of the most impoverished areas of Uganda. However, hear me on this. When you close your eyes and picture poverty in Africa, that image in your mind is not a universal representation. I learned that about myself and my own preconceptions this week for sure. I wrestled (and still am, present tense) with the task of attempting to define and understand poverty and all that is wrapped up in that. In the West, one might look at my host parents and consider them poor. But they do not struggle to put food on the table, they sustain themselves through the land they own and the food they grow. They understand conservation, care for what they own, and work very hard. If measured, their land and animals could translate to monetary value that would increase their material wealth significantly. At the same time, in the village this week, I observed acute poverty that has been unmatched by anything in the previous two months. All the while, I was reading “The White Man’s Burden,” a convicting critique by a former World Bank economist of Western involvement in the developing world, particularly through aid, military and political interference, and all forms of residual neocolonialism. I don’t think I will ever stop grappling with the irreparable damage we have done in our pursuits of materialism and power, and our misuse of resources and privilege. This paragraph is insufficient to express my questions and tangled thought processes about this particular topic, but for now, it’s what I’m capable of writing.

By the end of the week, I had more questions than answers. Honestly, what else is new. On Friday morning, we were picked up and drove to Kapchowra, about an hour away, where we spent the weekend. On Friday night, we spent time in intentional debrief, which was helpful, but in many ways only began to scratch the surface of our 25 different experiences. Saturday, we had a day of emotional (but definitely not physical) rest. After a lovely breakfast, we hiked Mount Elgon, an extinct volcano and home to the famous Sipi Falls, one of Uganda’s bigger tourist spots. The ten mile hike was exhausting, but refreshing and breathtaking. I’ll let the pictures speak for themselves.

We had a quick thirty minute respite after the hike before we began a “coffee tour.” Kapchowra is the OG home of the Arabica coffee bean, discovered long ago by a lucky farmer who just wanted to find out why his goats were getting hyper after eating the leaves of some tree with redish colored berries. On the tour, we got to learn about and help with the process of making coffee, from picking beans to pouring a steaming cup and everything in between. Definitely a highlight for me, even if it was a horribly touristy activity. Shown in the photo below is me shelling coffee beans. Not pictured was the slap happy, caffeine induced state my roommates witnessed me in after the effects of having more coffee than I’ve had in two months kicked in. Let’s say I was laughing at everything and didn’t get the most sleep I’ve ever gotten, but it was quite worth it.

On Sunday morning, we hiked to the top of the little hill above the guest house for a small worship service before our departure. I was asked to give a brief testimony about what God has been teaching me in this first half of the semester (in 5-10 minutes??). I spoke about patience. presence, and newness, the ways that He has been revealing my restlessness to me, but it felt next to impossible to come up with some concise summary of the work He has done in me in the past two months (and is surely continuing to do). Thanks for sticking with me and reading this long post to the end. If it feels open ended, that’s because my thoughts are open ended in so many ways right now. I don’t want to settle for a pretty packaged or over-simplified version of the week. In some areas, I settled for brevity in this post, because I don’t want to risk sounding like I have the answers. I know the week was hard; I know the week was valuable. I know it left me with even more to ponder than I already had, which I didn’t know was possible. As I talk with you individually in the coming weeks, don’t be afraid to ask me questions, because they will help me in my pondering, but know that I am unresolved and still figuring out how to understand.

A brief post-script. Some people (not necessarily any of you) have made comments to my USP friends and I that come with a perceived bravery or accomplishment in what we did last week. “You lived in a rural village in Africa?! That must have been so hard, you are so brave!” or something of the sort. All I will say is that I am not brave. My attitude at points during the week was not even in the ballpark of praiseworthy. This whole thing is as far from being about me as possible. I felt like an outsider this week, even though I was being welcomed into a community. Don’t hear me being dismissive of your encouragement. But I challenge all of you to not let your perceptions of African poverty to shape your visions of my experience. I think these kinds of comments, while well intentioned, are rooted in subconscious (read: often distorted) pictures of the reality of a place like this. I hope that as I communicate to you, the things I say will never glorify or manipulate the things I am experiencing as a result of my own pride and desire for affirmation. Please call me out if you ever see or hear this in my words. Thanks again for being in my corner.

All my love,

Abs

Spring Break February 26, 2018 Where to begin? Probably with a deep breath. Two months from today, I will be on a plane back to the States, which means I have reached the half way point.

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chunmakowski3-blog · 7 years

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hotass milf - What You Can Do About Mature Asian Feet Pics Starting In The Next Ten Minutes

Ive always had this silly idea in the back of my head, that maybe I should be writing more than just forum posts and rants on facebook, that maybe I might have more to say, or share, than Ive been allowing myself. So, within that vein of thought, I sat down, and through a mix of two things that really did happen to me, along with some embellishment and other imaginings, I put the following partial story together. I have no idea what to expect from this, good bad or indifferent, but If you take the time to read it, please share your thoughts / critique. Writing like this is experimental for me and Im going even further on the limb by making it erotic... and know that I know, that this is rather rough. Ive gone over it a few times, and I think I could continue to edit, just this tiny piece for ages. Point is, I know Im a newb, and have a long way to go before I might be good. So be honest, but also respectful please. Advice, points, a direction... all welcome. This is just the beginning. The second piece and most of the conclusion are outlined. If folks show interest, Ill finish it up and post it as part #2. Laundry Day... Saturday morning... close to noon, still tired from staying up too late the night before. I get some coffee started then head back to the other end of the house to grab some laundry for the wash. Its a beautiful spring day, really warm outside so I pull some windows and the door open, with just the screens on to keep the bugs out. I live on a quiet street in the suburbs, and mine is the last house before a few empty lots, so I get zero foot traffic. I dont even think twice about traipsing about the house in my boxers. Im 28 years old, about six foot tall, a little too thin but muscular and wiry from working construction all year. I think that Im considered attractive despite my hawkish nose. I have long hair and about 3 days of facial growth. I need to shave, but dont much care too. If I have an attribute that stands out, women often tell me that I have nice hands. Im humming along to Sweet child o mine squeaking out of my old radio while stuffing dirty clothes into the washer when I hear a flat knock on the screen door. The door isnt latched, so it swings half open at the touch. Im a little startled and surprised when I look over and see an attractive woman, twenty-something, dressed modestly in shorts and blouse carrying a hand-bag and a stack of pamphlets. She has long, strawberry blonde hair, and I notice right away, tight, fit legs and a cute face. Regardless of my surprise, I sheepishly say hello, and without even considering that Im more naked than not I approach the door, baffled that theres anyone there at all, nevermind this pretty young woman. She appears to be about as nervous as I am, and begins a rehearsed line from the sheet she has clutched in her hand. She stutters a bit but recoveres quickly. She says My church has asked a few of us to pass out these pamphlets to let people know about our Sunday services. She looks up expectantly, while reaching out to hand me a pamphlet. I take it, and our fingers touch, giving me a slight chill down my spine. A slight breeze blows through the house and I notice that she smells really nice. A complimentary scent to the spring air. I smile and look down at the pamphlet, surreptitiously her thighs. She doesnt seem to have more to say, so I tell her that Im not particularly religious but if she wants to talk, shes welcome to come on in as long as she doesnt mind if I do some laundry while we chat. I gesture at my obvious near nakedness, expecting a repsonse, but instead she just smiles again, very deliberately pushes the door the rest of the way open and walks over to sit down on the couch. She looks demure and slightly nervous, with her legs together and a stack of pamphlets gripped tight in both hands. Despite the apparent nervousness, shes still wearing a grin that looks more mischevious than awkward. I think to myself that so far her actions have been more bold than timid. The situation was feeling rather unreal, her sitting there with me standing in only my very brief thin white boxers. I didnt really know what to do, and I dont think it was conscious thought that got me there, but I walked over and sat next to her. We both sat quiet for a few moments that felt overlong. While I was trying to think up something to say, and becoming increasingly aware of how close to nude I was, she looked over at me, a little red-faced, and then suddenly stood up, mumbled something I didnt understand and took off out the door. If you have any kind of concerns about wherever as well as how to work with mature milfs pics, you are able to email us from our webpage. I stood up to follow, but she had distanced herself from the house rather quickly and I didnt want to run outside in only my underwear. I was puzzled, and more than a little disappointed that shed left so quickly. Id gotten near as much warning with her leaving as Id had with her coming. I turned around, shook my head, laughed a little, walked to my bedroom, found some jeans and a shirt to put on and then walked outside to see her and her group a few doors down talking with my elderly neighbor. They all looked up when they heard my screen door shut. I waved, she waved back, then turned away as the group said their goodbyes to my neighbor, got into a mini-van and drove away. With nothing more to do or say, I went back inside refilled my coffee mug and sat down on the couch, still warm where shed been sitting, and attempted to take stock of what just happened. Though there had been few words and no contact, the experience left me with my blood pumping. I leaned my head back and closed my eyes. My mind replaying the experience over and over, changing the subtleties to suit my fantasies. Fantasies that eventually got the best of me. My cock got hard. Throbbing in my boxers, I couldnt help myself, I reached down and stroked it thinking of what might have happened differently with this impromptu beautiful stranger who had come to my home, and then left again after such a brief encounter. As the days turned to weeks, the memory of the experience and the fantasy became a sort of routine. I would sit on the couch and masturbate thinking of the day Id had a beautiful stranger come to my door. Each time I would imagine having said something clever or having reached over and touched her leg while she sat there, each action or word a catalyst for the fantasy to bloom. A touch turned to another, and then a kiss, and well, you get the idea. Time passed, a month or more, I dont remember now. It was my day off during the week. I was killing some time playing a video game, awaiting the time free naked mature pictures to go meet my friends for drinks that afternoon. It was still warm out, and after her visit and my subsequent fantasies, Id gotten into the habit of leaving the front door open, screen door closed but unlatched. Id come down from the high of the experience, but it was still fueling my masturbation ritual on a nearly daily basis. Despite this and though I suppose Id subconsciously hoped to run into her one day, I was harboring no real belief that Id see her again. Amidst the noise and distraction of the game I was playing, I almost didnt hear it when someone at my door cleared their throat. Once again startled, I jumped a little, and when I turned to see, it was her at the door, and already pushing it open, though Id not invited her in. I was dumbstruck and overwhelmed at how attractive she looked framed by the door and the sunlight streaming in around her. She let the door shut behind her, and stood there smiling dressed in a white t-shirt and semi-raggy short jeans with her long reddish-blonde hair flowing down her shoulders and onto her chest. She looked different, less demure, and it took me a few moments to realize she was wearing makeup that was absent at our first meeting, and this time her clothes are a little tighter and I can see that through her shirt, the bra shes wearing is lacy, sexy milf, on purpose. Her cute face and fit legs are the standouts of her appearance, and though I cant tell with her facing me, I imagine that she must have a really fantastic ass too. Then, in an instant, several things cross my mind at once. I felt my face flush red, as several weeks of stroking my cock to thoughts and fantasies about this woman came flooding back to me. It was my turn to studder. I didnt know what to say, and then I began to feel myself getting hard. I thought, at least Im wearing pants this time. Feeling unusually confident, perhaps inspired by her bold intrusion, I let my inhibitions go and allow myself to become erect. I stood there facing her, each of us looking one another up and down, taking each other in, appraising. I was sure shed noticed my hard-on, she smiled and then looked me in the eye. I nervously, nearly choking on the words said, Hey again, how are you... come on in. even though she was already standing in the room. tweakmymeter

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Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie: ‘Can people please stop telling me feminism is hot?’

The novelist has been accused of making equality mainstream: isnt that the point? Plus an extract from her new Feminist Manifesto In Fifteen Suggestions

Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie was in Lagos last summer, teaching a writing workshop as part of an annual schedule that sees her time divided between Nigeria and the US. For much of the year, Adichie lives in a town 30 minutes west of Baltimore, where her Nigerian-American husband works as a medic and the 39-year-old writes in the quiet of a suburban home. When Adichie is in Nigeria, where her parents and extended family still live, she has a house in the vast city she regards with the complicated love and condescension of the part-time expat.

Its an ambivalence with which many Nigerians regard her, too; last year, the workshop ended in a question-and-answer session, during which a young man rose to ask the famous novelist a question. I used to love you, she recalls him saying. Ive read all your books. But since you started this whole feminism thing, and since you started to talk about this gay thing, Im just not sure about you any more. How do you intend to keep the love of people like me?

Adichie and I are in a coffee shop near her home in the Baltimore suburbs. We have met before, a few years ago, when her third novel Americanah was published, a book that examines what it is to be a Nigerian woman living in the US, and that went on to win a National Book Critics Circle award. A lot has happened since then. Half Of A Yellow Sun, Adichies second and most famous novel, about the Biafran war, has been made into a film starring Chiwetel Ejiofor and Thandie Newton. Her essay, We Should All Be Feminists, adapted from her 2013 TEDx talk, has remained on the bestseller lists, particularly in Sweden, where in 2015 it was distributed to every 16-year-old high-school student in the land. The talk was sampled by Beyonc in her song Flawless. Adichie has become the face of Boots No7 makeup. And she has had a baby, a daughter, now 15 months old.

Adichie is still somewhat in the blast zone, not entirely caught up on sleep, but has published a short book, Dear Ijeawele, Or A Feminist Manifesto In Fifteen Suggestions, an extended version of a letter to a friend who, after having her own baby girl, asked Adichies advice on how to raise her to be feminist. I have had twin girls myself since our last meeting, so I am curious about her approach, not least because one of my two-year-olds currently identifies as Bob the Builder and the other as Penelope Pitstop. I would like to equip them to be themselves, while resisting whatever projections might be foisted upon them. We show each other baby photos and smile. Welcome to the world of anxiety, Adichie says.

The success of We Should All Be Feminists has made Adichie as prominent for her feminism as for her novels, to the extent that now I get invited to every damned feminist thing in the whole world. She has always been an agony aunt of sorts, the unpaid therapist for my family and friends, but having the feminist label attached has changed things, and not just among her intimates. I was opened to a certain level of hostility that I hadnt experienced before as a writer and public figure.

This is partly why she has written the new book, to reclaim the word feminism from its abusers and misusers, a category within which she would include certain other progressives, and to lay down in plain, elegant English her beliefs about child-raising.

Dear Ijeawele is, in some ways, a very basic set of appeals; to be careful with language (never say because you are a girl), avoid gendered toys, encourage reading, dont treat marriage as an achievement, reject likability. Her job is not to make herself likable, her job is to be her full self, she writes in reference to her friends daughter, a choice Adichie has come to elevate almost above any other.

That day in Lagos last summer, her friends were furious at the cheek of the young mans question, but she rather liked his bravery and honesty in asking it. She replied in the same spirit. Keep your love, Adichie said. Because, sadly, while I love to be loved, I will not accept your love if it comes with these conditions.

Having a baby has made Adichie think differently about her own parents, particularly her mother. Grace Adichie, who had six children and worked her way up from being a university administrator to the registrar, taught her daughter to love fashion as well as books, and was a very cool mum whom she idolised as a child. Nonetheless, and in the manner of most snotty young adults, young Chimamanda went through a phase of being very superior to her mother. Now, the novelist looks at her daughter and gulps.

Adichie recently came across her own kindergarten reports. My father keeps them all. You know what the teacher wrote? She is brilliant, but she refuses to do any work when shes annoyed. I was five years old. She laughs. I couldnt believe it. My husband couldnt believe it. I must have been an annoying child.

Its not as if she comes from a family of radicals. My parents are not like that. Theyre conventional, reasonable, responsible, good, kind people. Im the crazy. But their love and support made that crazy thrive.

Unlike Adichie, who was raised exclusively in Nigeria, her daughter will be raised in two cultures and subject to slightly diverging social expectations. Already, Adichie says with a laugh, friends and relatives from home are concerned that her mothering is insufficiently stern.

A friend was just visiting and she said to me, Your parenting is not very Nigerian. In Nigeria and, I think, in many cultures you control children. And I feel like, my daughter is 15 months, she doesnt have a sense of consequences. And I enjoy watching her. So she tears a page of a book? Whatever. She throws my shoes down. So? Its fun. I love that shes quite strong-willed. The joke between Adichie and her husband whom, to her intense annoyance, their daughter looks much more like is that her character cleaves to the maternal side. He says to me, Well, at least we know where she got her personality from. Shes quite fierce.

In the new book, Adichies advice is not only to provide children with alternatives to empower boys and girls to understand there is no single way to be but also to understand that the only universal in this world is difference. In terms of the evolution of feminism, these are not new lessons, but that is rather Adichies point. She is not writing for other feminist writers, and shows some frustration at what she sees as the solipsism of much feminist debate.

That morning, on the way to see her, I had read a review of a new book by Jessa Crispin, entitled Why I Am Not A Feminist: A Feminist Manifesto, a critique of everything that is wrong with feminism today. If one can get over the eye-rolling aspect of books by feminists decrying the feminism of other feminists for degrading the word feminist by being insufficiently feminist, the book does raise questions about where one should be focusing ones efforts.

Fashion blogger Chiara Ferragni wears Adichies Dior T-shirt during Paris fashion week, January 2017. Photograph: Edward Berthelot/Getty Images

The proposition is that feminism has become so mainstream as to be an empty marketing tool, a mere slogan on a bag or a T-shirt. Without being named, Adichie is implicated in this critique, given that last year she collaborated with Christian Dior on a T-shirt bearing the line We Should All Be Feminists; depending on ones view, this is either a perfect example of pointless sloganeering or a brilliant piece of preaching to the unconverted.

Im already irritated, Adichie says. This idea of feminism as a party to which only a select few people get to come: this is why so many women, particularly women of colour, feel alienated from mainstream western academic feminism. Because, dont we want it to be mainstream? For me, feminism is a movement for which the end goal is to make itself no longer needed. I think academic feminism is interesting in that it can give a language to things, but Im not terribly interested in debating terms. I want peoples marriages to change for the better. I want women to walk into job interviews and be treated the same way as somebody who has a penis.

Still, one can see a theoretical obscenity about the Dior collaboration: the words of a movement that should be concerned with helping low-income women, used to promote and make money for a wealthy company. On the other hand: what is the damage?

Yes: whats the damage? Adichie says. I would even argue about the theoretically obscene. Theres a kind of self-righteousness to the ultra-left that is hard for me to stomach. Its approach to poverty can sometimes border on condescension. I often think that people who write a lot about poverty need to go and spend more time with poor people. I think about Nigerian women who can hardly afford anything but who love fashion. They have no money, but they work it.

Adichie mentions a TV soap opera that used to run in Nigeria called The Rich Also Cry, a terrible drama series, she says, that was very popular. But sometimes I think about that title. So, the creative director of Christian Dior is obviously a woman of some privilege. But does it then mean that she doesnt have gender-based problems in her life? Because she does. Does it mean she doesnt have this magnificent rage about gender injustice? Because she does. Wanting to use that slogan was it going to make the world a better place? No. But I think theres a level of consciousness-raising and a level of subversion that I like.

She doesnt believe it was a cynical marketing ploy? No. Sorry. Feminism is not that hot. I can tell you I would sell more books in Nigeria if I stopped and said Im no longer a feminist. I would have a stronger following, I would make more money. So when people say, Oh, feminisms a marketing ploy, it makes me laugh.

The bigger issue here is one of range. Adichies irritation with aspects of what she thinks of as professional feminism is that it runs counter to her ideas as a writer: that people contain multitudes. She is a brilliant novelist and a serious thinker, and she is also someone who makes no apology for her own trivial interests. Life doesnt always follow ideology, she says. You might believe in certain things and life gets in and things just become messy. You know? I think thats the space that fiction, and having a bit more of an imaginative approach, makes. And that the feminist speaking circuit doesnt really make room for.

There is much in the new book about double standards, including those governing the images of motherhood and fatherhood. I think we need to stop giving men cookies for doing what they should do, she says, and goes on to explain that her husband, who needs less sleep than her, tends to get up in the night to tend to the baby. On the one hand, I realise that my husband is unusual; on the other, I feel resentful when hes overpraised by my family and friends. Hes like Jesus.

He probably senses shes about to go off the deep end, I suggest, and Adichie smiles to acknowledge how impossible she is. I did all the physical work to produce her! Theres something fundamentally wrong with the way weve constructed what it means to be female in the world.

Photograph: Stephen Voss for the Guardian

This is something she writes about in a lovely passage of the new book about hair. As a child, Adichie and her sisters and every other girl she knew were routinely tortured with a metal comb to subdue their hair, something her brothers were spared. Im glad I wrote that, Adichie says. We had just come back from Lagos and my sister, God bless her, had already had a talk with me about my daughters hair. She said, You need to do something about it. With my family, theres an eye-roll and a here-we-go-again with her, and she said to me, Do you want me to send you a set of combs? And I was like, No, thank you. And I know its going to keep happening. But, no, Im not going to conform in that way. Im not going to have my child go through pain because society expects a certain neatness. It happened to me, its not going to happen to her. And Im ready to have all the battles I need to have.

The original letter on which Dear Ijeawele is based has been shared on Facebook, and while Adichie was in Lagos, a woman whod read it approached her in a shop and said, Heres my daughter, look at her hair. She had very loose cornrows that were not neat according to Nigerians. And she said, You inspired that. My daughter is happier, Im happier. And do you know, it was the highlight of my month.

This is not just a question of image. It is also about time. Women have less time than men, in almost every arena, because their responsibilities to look or act a certain way are more onerous.

It is one of Adichies bugbears that as someone who loves fashion, she is by default not taken seriously. When Boots approached her to be the face of its No7 makeup range, she said yes, because she thought it might be fun; in the end, she says, it became vaguely alarming. I have no regrets, but you wake up one day and think, what the hell have I done? There were too many of these pictures everywhere. Her point, however, is that its not that Im a feminist and made a strategic choice to speak about makeup and fashion. Its that I was raised by Grace Adichie in a culture in which you care about how you look. Its a part of me I once hid, because I felt that I had to to be serious. Now, Im just being who I am.

Recently, Adichies identity has been tested in new ways. I wonder if she is less affected by President Trump than an American, on the basis that she is less invested in the American story. Quite the opposite, she says. Because theres a part of me that needs a country I can think of as being one that largely works. Which is not a luxury that Nigeria can have. She laughs.

Someone said to me, Now that this is happening in the US, do you think of moving back to Nigeria? And I thought, no, because its not any better there. I admire America. I dont think of myself as American Im not. So its not mine. But I admire it, and so theres a sense that this thing I built in my head, its been destroyed.

There is also, she says, something familiar about it all. American democracy has never been tested. You might have disagreed ideologically with George W Bush, but he still kind of followed the rules. Here, it feels like Nigeria. It really does. Its that feeling of political uncertainty that Im very familiar with, but not a feeling I like. Its ugly. But even worse, because America is so powerful, and so much at the centre of the world, these things have consequences for everyone. Nigeria doesnt have that kind of reach, so our problems remain our problems.

In January, Adichie and her husband joined the Womens March in DC. It was fleeting, and symbolic, she says, but it gave me the smallest slice of hope. There are all of these people who seem to realise that America has changed by electing an unhinged person. On the other hand, theres a part of me thats very sceptical of too much sentimentality. I hope it translates into people organising and going out to vote.

Long before talk about piercing the filter bubble, Adichie instinctively subscribed to rightwing blogs and newsletters. She was an early watcher of Fox News, until it became too unhinged and ridiculous. But she has carried on, because Im interested in ideological concerns and how people differ, and how we should build a society. Whats a welfare state? People who have less, are we responsible for them? I think we are. And I think I can make a selfish case, which is apparently what appeals to people on the right. People on the left say we should do it because we should be kind. And people on the right think, Excuse me? But if you say to them, If these people dont get healthcare, they will go to the ER and your tax dollars will pay for it, suddenly they sit up.

Adichie with her husband, Ivara Esege. Photograph: DDAA/ZOB/Daniel Deme/WENN

As a result of her reading, rightwing ideology is not something I think is evil, she says. Some. A bit. But, in general, I dont. I have friends who are good, kind people who are on the right. But Donald Trump is an exception. Its not an objection to a conservative, because I dont even think hes a conservative. My objection is an objection to chaos. Each time I turn on the news, Im holding my breath.

Trumps erosion of language is one of the most frightening things about him, but even progressives, Adichie says, can be sloppy on this front. In response to her new book, a reporter emailed her the question: Why not humanism? (instead of feminism). To which, she says, I thought, what part of the fucking book did this person not read?

Its like the people who go around saying All Lives Matter, I say, in response to the Black Lives Matter movement. Right, which I find deeply offensive and very dishonest. Because we have to name something in order to fix it, which is why I insist on the word feminist or feminism.

This, she says, in spite of the fact that many of her friends, particularly black women, resist that word, because the history of feminism has been very white and has assumed women meant white women. Political discussion in this country still does that. Theyll say, Women voted for… and then, Black people voted for… And I think: Im black and a woman, so where do I fit in here?

As a result, Many of my friends who are not white will say, Im an intersectional feminist, or Im a womanist. And I have trouble with that word, because it has undertones of femininity as this mystical goddess-mother thing, which makes me uncomfortable. So we need a word. And my hope is we use feminism often enough that it starts to lose all the stigma and becomes this inclusive, diverse thing.

This is her goal and her defence, although she still doesnt see why she needs one. Her understanding of feminism is intertwined with her understanding that we all want to be more than one thing. And anyway, she repeats, Can people please stop telling me that feminism is hot? Because its not. Adichie looks magnificently annoyed. Honestly.

Beware feminism lite: an extract from Chimamanda Ngozi Adichies letter-turned-book, Dear Ijeawele

Be a full person. Motherhood is a glorious gift, but do not define yourself solely by it. You dont even have to love your job; you can merely love the confidence and self-fulfilment that come with doing and earning. Please reject the idea that motherhood and work are mutually exclusive. Our mothers worked full-time while we were growing up, and we turned out well at least you did; the jury is still out on me.

In these coming weeks of early motherhood, be kind to yourself. Ask for help. Expect to be helped. There is no such thing as a Superwoman. Parenting is about practice and love.

Give yourself room to fail. A new mother does not necessarily know how to calm a crying baby. Read books, look things up on the internet, ask older parents, or just use trial and error. But, above all, take time for yourself. Nurture your own needs.

I have no interest in the debate about women doing it all, because it is a debate that assumes that caregiving and domestic work are singularly female domains, an idea that I strongly reject. Domestic work and caregiving should be gender-neutral, and we should be asking not whether a woman can do it all, but how best to support parents in their dual duties at work and at home.

Photograph: Stephen Voss for the Guardian

Beware the danger of what I call Feminism Lite; the idea of conditional female equality. Being a feminist is like being pregnant. You either are or you are not. You either believe in the full equality of men and women, or you do not.

Teach your daughter to question language. A friend of mine says she will never call her daughter princess. The word is loaded with assumptions, of a girls delicacy, of the prince who will come to save her. This friend prefers angel and star. So decide the things you will not say to your child. You know that Igbo joke, used to tease girls who are being childish What are you doing? Dont you know you are old enough to find a husband? I used to say that often. But now I choose not to. I say, You are old enough to find a job. Because I do not believe that marriage is something we should teach young girls to aspire to.

Try not to use words like misogyny and patriarchy. We feminists can sometimes be too jargony. Teach her that if you criticise X in women but do not criticise X in men, you do not have a problem with X, you have a problem with women. For X please insert words like anger, ambition, loudness, stubbornness, coldness, ruthlessness.

Do you remember how we laughed and laughed at an atrociously written piece about me some years ago? The writer had accused me of being angry, as though being angry were something to be ashamed of. Of course I am angry. I am angry about racism. I am angry about sexism. But I recently came to the realisation that I am angrier about sexism than I am about racism. Because in my anger about sexism, I often feel lonely. Because I love, and live among, many people who easily acknowledge race injustice but not gender injustice.

Teach your daughter to question men who can have empathy for women only if they see them as relational rather than as individual equal humans. Men who, when discussing rape, will say something like, If it were my daughter or wife or sister. Yet such men do not need to imagine a male victim of crime as a brother or son in order to feel empathy.

Teach her, too, to question the idea of women as a special species. I once heard an American politician, in his bid to show his support for women, speak of how women should be revered and championed a sentiment that is all too common. Tell her that women dont need to be championed and revered; they just need to be treated as equal human beings.

This is a condensed and edited extract from Dear Ijeawele, Or A Feminist Manifesto In Fifteen Suggestions, by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, published on Tuesday by Fourth Estate at 10. To order a copy for 8.50, go to bookshop.theguardian.com

This article was amended on 4 March 2017. It originally referred to Lagos as Nigerias capital. This has now been corrected.