My favorite part of youtube is the part of is that is middle-aged-to-old guys with zero production value who have made a simple, low-quality video on their phones about how to repair the exact fucking appliance that has been giving me grief so I can fix that fucker myself instead of spending hundreds of dollars to hire someone.
These men are all my honorary uncles and I love them.
“One of the coolest examples of creative living that I’ve seen in recent years, for instance, came from my friend Susan, who took up figure skating when she was forty years old. To be more precise, she actually already knew how to skate. She had competed in figure skating as a child and had always loved it, but she’d quit the sport during adolescence when it became clear she didn’t have quite enough talent to be a champion. (Ah, lovely adolescence—when the “talented” are officially shunted off from the herd, thus putting the total burden of society’s creative dreams on the thin shoulders of a few select souls, while condemning everyone else to live a more commonplace, inspiration-free existence! What a system … )
For the next quarter of a century, my friend Susan did not skate. Why bother, if you can’t be the best? Then she turned forty. She was listless. She was restless. She felt drab and heavy. She did a little soul-searching, the way one does on the big birthdays. She asked herself when was the last time she’d felt truly light, joyous, and—yes—creative in her own skin. To her shock, she realized that it had been decades since she’d felt that way. In fact, the last time she’d experienced such feelings had been as a teenager, back when she was still figure skating. She was appalled to discover that she had denied herself this life-affirming pursuit for so long, and she was curious to see if she still loved it.
So she followed her curiosity. She bought a pair of skates, found a rink, hired a coach. She ignored the voice within her that told her she was being self-indulgent and preposterous to do this crazy thing. She tamped down her feelings of extreme self-consciousness at being the only middle-aged woman on the ice, with all those tiny, feathery nine-year-old girls.
She just did it.
Three mornings a week, Susan awoke before dawn and, in that groggy hour before her demanding day job began, she skated. And she skated and skated and skated. And yes, she loved it, as much as ever. She loved it even more than ever, perhaps, because now, as an adult, she finally had the perspective to appreciate the value of her own joy. Skating made her feel alive and ageless. She stopped feeling like she was nothing more than a consumer, nothing more than the sum of her daily obligations and duties. She was making something of herself, making something with herself.
It was a revolution. A literal revolution, as she spun to life again on the ice—revolution upon revolution upon revolution …
Please note that my friend did not quit her job, did not sell her home, did not sever all her relationships and move to Toronto to study seventy hours a week with an exacting Olympic-level skating coach. And no, this story does not end with her winning any championship medals. It doesn’t have to. In fact, this story does not end at all, because Susan is still figure skating several mornings a week—simply because skating is still the best way for her to unfold a certain beauty and transcendence within her life that she cannot seem to access in any other manner. And she would like to spend as much time as possible in such a state of transcendence while she is still here on earth.”
From : BIG MAGIC - creative living beyond fear. By Elizabeth Gilbert.
taking joy in doing things as opposed to doing them in order to achieve some kind of external goal is just really liberating.
There are so many theories about Columbo’s wife not being real (she’s a complete fabrication, she’s secretly his boyfriend, he’s actually talking about a very opinionated cat, etc) and I love all of them but tbh he really gives off major “out of touch but super supportive straight man with a trans wife” vibes.
His wife was one of his guy friends for a while and when she finally came out to him he was like “Oh, wouldja look at that! This is VERY convenient. See, I’ve never been into guys myself. Nothing against fellas who like that, just not my cup of tea. So I’ve been trying to figure out for ages why I want to ask you out on a date. Confusin the heck out of me. Again, nothing against it, just never something I’ve been into before. I was having a whole identity crisis over it, Yknow. But I guess that clears all that up! Whaddaya say to dinner?”
You’ve already been linked to “My Eyes Adored Ya” but has the author @hallo-catfish been linked to you??
lets-burn-down-the-post-office:
today I used the phrase “breasting boobily” in casual real life conversation and everyone was shocked asking how I came up with that and I had to explain it. ive been at the devil’s sacrament so long that I forgot he wasn’t god
“I’ve been at the devil’s sacrament so long I forgot he wasn’t god” is getting added to the tumblr line book
jonathan harker’s arc is about him accepting that he is actually into being dominated by an evil vampire as long as that evil vampire is the woman he loves. mina murray harker’s arc is about her accepting that she has a right to take up space and speak her mind instead of bowing to social norms. lucy westenra’s arc is about how the polyamory didn’t change anything, it didn’t save anyone, but it still matters that the polyamory was there. arthur holmwood’s arc is about learning to cope with a sudden massive tragedy by opening himself up to others and strengthening his social bonds. quincy p morris’s arc is about being hot and owning guns. abraham van helsing’s arc is about not getting complacent in the idea that he has an open mind and accepting that he might make wrong calls based on his biases. jack seward’s arc is about rebounding from life altering heartbreak by getting back in contact with his old favorite professor from med school who he sucked off one time. count dracula’s arc is about fumbling a series of bad bitches so hard that he flees the country and dies.
they should invent an existence where the sweetest, most thoughtful people you’ve ever met don’t suffer an endless series of indignities and injuries at the hands of gormless, self-obsessed monsters
i think love is stored in nighttime conversations and “did you eat yet” and books left outside your door and “i waited to watch this with you” and splitting something in half to share and “im proud of you” and folded towels and “you can pick” and heads on shoulders and “you’re right, that was shitty. im sorry” and knocks on doors and “DINNER!” and stupid jokes and “hey i got this for you” and coffee made just right and… there are so many ways people say i love you silently every day over and over again if you only listen
