I. love. the. Anaconda. video. but the writeups I’ve been seeing keep referring to Drake as a co-star, which I think misses a big part of the point.

The reason this video rules is because Drake is an extra. Drake is a prop. Drake is a bro in the comfy-casual clothes that he rolled up to the set in, who has no lines or purpose other than the be ground upon, and whose face is obscured by shadows most of the time.

This is not a continuation of the Drake/Nicki/Rih media narrative. This is a dank-as-fuck feminist power play. This is, “Drake is whatever to me.” And this is a man who, if he isn’t at the top of his game, is close to it. A huge celebrity. And here is Nicki looking fucking amazing, tormenting him into a boner, then swatting his hand away and walking out of frame.

Your anaconda don’t want none unless she got buns, hun? Maybe she doesn’t want your anaconda. Maybe she’ll do whatever the fuck she wants with her buns, and it doesn’t matter what you think or feel.

I. love. the. Anaconda. video. but the writeups I’ve been seeing keep referring to Drake as a co-star, which I think misses a big part of the point.

The reason this video rules is because Drake is an extra. Drake is a prop. Drake is a bro in the comfy-casual clothes that he rolled up to the set in, who has no lines or purpose other than the be ground upon, and whose face is obscured by shadows most of the time.

This is not a continuation of the Drake/Nicki/Rih media narrative. This is a dank-as-fuck feminist power play. This is, “Drake is whatever to me.” And this is a man who, if he isn’t at the top of his game, is close to it. A huge celebrity. And here is Nicki looking fucking amazing, tormenting him into a boner, then swatting his hand away and walking out of frame.

Your anaconda don’t want none unless she got buns, hun? Maybe she doesn’t want your anaconda. Maybe she’ll do whatever the fuck she wants with her buns, and it doesn’t matter what you think or feel.

Will reblog this shit til the day my fingers fall off.

(Source: nickimlnaj, via trillveon)

Will reblog this shit til the day my fingers fall off.

(Source: nickimlnaj, via trillveon)

I feel so useless sitting here. What can I do to help Ferguson??
  Anonymous

megwhat:

wocinsolidarity:

natnovna:

there’s a bail and legal fund that’s been set up for those who’ve been arrested 

this person is trying to organize a food drive for school kids in ferguson

national moment of silence 2014 (for victims of police brutality) 

share the following: 

videos of what has happened

links to articles

how to make a tear gas mask

livestream link to the peaceful protests

Ferguson Police Department
Email (taken off the site) 

222 S. Florissant Road
Ferguson, MO 63135

Ph: 314-522-3100
Fx: 314-524-5290

***SIGNAL BOOST!!!!WAYS TO CONTRIBUTE***

The legal fund.  I can’t stress enough how important that legal fund is going to be for SO many people who have been arrested. 

He was funny as shit. But he could make shit funny. Not shit meaning “stuff” — shit meaning darkness and awful situations and separated families and cancer-stricken kids and even aliens who feel alone in the world because no one else will ever truly know what it is to be him. And because of that, even more so than his talent, he’s one of the ones the rest of us will be chasing from now on.

I cannot believe this album is four years old.

About a year ago I asked you how for advice on comforting my boyfriend as he found out his father was diagnosed with terminal cancer. I'm sorry to say that after a year his father passed on Friday afternoon. I'm writing to say that your advice was wise & has been so insightful. Thank you from the bottom of my heart. You're advice helped me become a better partner in all relationships by making me realize that listening and hearing your counterparts is key. Your response meant so much. Thank you!
  hannahkwood

While this blows very deeply, it also rules that you two have each other. Which, if you think about it, is kind of a perfect summary of ~what it’s all about at the end of the day~.

FRUIT SNACK ADDICT

(Source: giganticsky, via frankocean)

FRUIT SNACK ADDICT

(Source: giganticsky, via frankocean)

A long time ago, you advocated for the generic Covergirl concealer and it changed my life and skin for the better. Now I've run out of my last tube, and I can't find it anywhere in my city. I haven't done a lot of research, but Covergirl seems to have moved away from the blue capped magic I've grown so fond of. Have you found any decent (low maintenance) alternatives? I don't want to move on, but I also don't want to spend a lot of money to have it shipped to me from Amazon.
  h-benj

I’m pretty sure they discontinued it, and I’m in the midst of the same crisis right now myself.

My first solution was to go to a major superstore (Target) and buy every tube of my shade that they had left in stock (2). I’m about halfway through the first one, with that final one on deck, and then once that’s gone I have literally no idea. I haven’t seen it anywhere else since.

In the weeks before I got to the superstore to stock up/hoard, I visited a lot of pharmacies and it looks like the trend in concealers right now is a click-brush formatted, waxy, oily piece of shit formula that: a) exacerbates your zit, and b) won’t set on your face in any meaningful way. Tried buying like three different pharmacy options and was dying a slow death, so I’m very thankful for the hoarding I did, but I’m also very aware of the fact that the end is nigh.

Maybe people out there know something that we don’t, though. Tumblr, are you aware of any wand-formatted concealers that are dank as hell?

Tonight I was lucky enough to get to read as part of Emily Wunderlich’s monthly series Big Umbrella, and the more I do these readings the more I’m like, “I fucking love doing these readings.”

I love a microphone, I love talking to people. I love to make them laugh.

Anyway, I’m posting the story here for posterity, and because I miss writing, and writing this was very fun.

When I registered for an OKCupid account, it was basically to see if I could act my own age. I’d just graduated from college in Maine and moved away from all my friends to New York City, where the friends I was making felt decades older than me dating-wise.

They’d lived with dudes, amicably broken up with dudes, platonically married dudes to help with their citizenship paperwork… it was unreal. I had dated one guy for a couple years in college and it had been stupid and ended even more stupidly, and now suddenly my weeknights were spent in an apartment I shared with three other people, making quesadillas in my Home Goods frying pan and watching several episodes of King of the Hill before going to bed and repeating the whole ritual the next day.

I had no idea where the young local singles were, but I knew OKCupid was a place I could start. Best case, I’d meet some new people, say some hellos. Worst case, I’d have something to chuckle about with these worldly-as-fuck new friends of mine.

Before I get any further, let me just say: god bless anyone out there with the wherewithal to wrangle that festering spamcauldron of a social media platform and use it to sincerely meet people with similar interests without feeling as though their soul has been run through a woodchipper and splattered across the snowy lawn of infinity, because having this account was a harrowing experience for me.

Within moments of registering, without even a photo uploaded or any information for anyone to react to, the direct messaging from horny singles began. Was I in the area? Did I have plans tonight? No one could spell, and no one cared if I was horny too. But after about a month of weeding through my inbox, optimistically responding to people who piqued my interest, and proactively seeking out guys who seemed cool, I ended up messaging back and forth with someone I liked.

The one-month-to-one-person ratio wasn’t ideal, but it seemed promising enough. We worked in similar but separate areas of the comedy industry, often took spontaneous and stupid trips with our friends, and had strong opinions about bodega junk food brands. We agreed to meet at a bar near my office for a beer after work, and I felt like I was finally dipping my toes into what it was all about. Broadway, baby!

The date was smooth sailing off the top: he had recently driven a van across the country, liked some of the same TV and stand-ups I did, and when I recommended he watch a Criterion doc about seahorses “with the lights out while you’re stoned,” he put the title in his phone and told me he’d watch it and report back. Sick.

Everything was tepid heterosexual fun until the topic of my upcoming birthday arose, and I told him about the cake some friends and I had ordered for our party. It featured two clipart aliens flanking a word from The Sims in Curlz MT, and I was beside myself with excitement over how I imagined it was gonna turn out.

Was it niche? Yes. Did I think for a second that it mattered? No. I was glowing as I described this crappy jpeg we were having photo-printed onto a dessert. But I could see my date’s face curdling a little bit with each computer-themed word, so I pumped the brakes and asked him if he knew what I was talking about.

For the record, Curlz MT is a font. A hideous, beautiful, magical one that’s been around for as long as I’ve been using word processors, and so I used it in my story the way I’d also say Arial or Times New Roman and assume that it’s 2014 and this isn’t amateur hour. But he didn’t know what it was, so I laughed and checked myself and explained it to him.

“It’s like, curly and princessy, but in an overtly ugly way. Kind of like Comic Sans is ugly, but so in your face about it that it’s kind of beautiful.”

And instead of saying, “Cool!” or, “Oh,” or, “Okay,” he said, “You can’t just say things like that and expect people to know what you mean,” and I froze.

That, ladies and gents, is the neg.

A smile immediately re-appeared on his face like he’d just been very charming — so he was still invested in me thinking he was a pleasant person — he just also wanted me to know that he wasn’t comfortable with me knowing more about something than he did. Or steering the conversation someplace foreign. Or something. Romance.

And because I am shy, and because I was branching out, and because I was already in the heightened anxiety state of being on a date with a stranger and having to pull conversation out of thin air like some kind of social magician, my face just fell and I stopped trying to make him understand me. I probably said something like, “Yeah, I’m a fucking dweeb,” and then changed the subject because — I don’t know — I was 23 and I was like, “Welp, this is how I’m treated.”

But in retrospect, what the fuck! Who says that! To anyone!

I think it’s the “you can’t just” that gets me.

“You can’t.”

I CAN, stranger! I can just!

We have just met each other and may never see each other again and I have somehow managed to breathe air and ingest food and blink my eyes all these years without you, so yes, I can refer to a font by its name while I drink a beer during my free time. It’s not like I was not telling him that I’m kind of into murder porn. I wasn’t telling him that I make vegan lubes and am thinking of starting an Etsy for them, would he like to taste one?

I was referencing the world’s most innocuous children’s birthday party typeface — one that anyone who has used a computer in the last two decades has had a high chance of running into, and even if they hadn’t yet, who cares! You can get the gist without knowing it intimately!

The date ended with a hug, and I can’t even remember this dude’s name or what he looked like, but I’ll remember that comment forever because I was so, so happy to be telling him about that cake, and he killed my joy, and I should have burned that evening to the ground. I should have taken a shit on the table and walked away cackling.