“I worked the third shift at a convenience store for a few months. At four in the morning most people are looking for cigarettes, porn, or one of those shriveled, angry-looking hot dogs from the rotating grill. One night, though, a woman came in during the wee hours. She looked a bit distraught as she paid at the counter. She paused for a moment, looked up at me and asked, “Do you think I’m pretty?” As it turned out, she had just walked in on her boyfriend with another woman. We proceeded to have a lengthy conversation about a person’s self-worth, fidelity, trust and relationships. And then I treated her to a slushy blue frozen drink.”—Steve Carell on a pre-acting job (via wherearetheturtles-wherearethey)
“Because it’s weird that in our culture, for some reason, marriage is something thrust upon women. Like boys get to spend six months deciding if they want to get married but then the girl only has like 10 seconds to say yes or no?”—John Green, from the Love and Romance Questions ANSWERED vlog, July 28th 2009 (via cherryblue)
People do not wear makeup to hide their true selves. Makeup is meant to enhance beauty, and is more an artform than a mask. We do not wear makeup to change our appearance, just to accentuate the more beautiful features in our faces. If you DO wear makeup as something to…
“Follow seven beers with a couple of scotches and a thimble of good marijuana, and it’s funny how sleep just sort of comes on its own. Often I never even made it to the bed. I’d squat down to pet the cat and wake up on the floor eight hours later, having lost a perfectly good excuse to change my clothes. I’m now told that this is not called “going to sleep” but rather “passing out,” a phrase that carries a distinct hint of judgment.”—David Sedaris (Me Talk Pretty One Day)
“To me, Kate Bush will always represent the age of exploring your sexuality, when you change from a girl to a woman. I guess that’s what I found fascinating about Kate, she totally stuck out. She created her own look and sound. There’s a timelessness to her music.”—Björk (via anditssocold)
“He stared up at the stars: and it seemed to him then that they were dancers, stately and graceful, performing a dance almost infinite in its complexity. He imagined he could see the very faces of the stars; pale, they were, and smiling gently, as if they had spent so much time above the world, watching the scrambling and the joy and the pain of the people below them, that they could not help being amused every time another little human believed itself the center of its world, as each of us does.”—Neil Gaiman (via iateadork)
I thought about this when I left Nigeria to go to university in the United States. I was 19. My American roommate was shocked by me. She asked where I had learned to speak English so well, and was confused when I said that Nigeria happened to have English as its official language. She asked if she could listen to what she called my “tribal music” and was consequently disappointed when I produced my tape of Mariah Carey. She assumed that I did not know how to use a stove.
What struck me was this: she had felt sorry for me even before she saw me. Her default position toward me, as an African, was a kind of patronizing, well-meaning pity. My roommate had a single story of Africa, a single story of catastrophe. In this single story there was no possibility of Africans being similar to her in any way, no possibility of feelings more complex than pity, no possibility of a connection as human equals.
[…] I recently spoke at a university where a student told me that it was such a shame that Nigerian men were physical abusers like the father character in my novel. I told him that I had just read a novel called American Psycho and that it was such a shame that young Americans were serial murderers.
Now— now, obviously I said this in a fit of mild irritation, but it would never have occurred to me to think that just because I had read a novel in which a character was a serial killer, that somehow he was representative of all Americans. Now, this is not because I am a better person than that student, but because of America’s cultural and economic power, I had many stories of America. I had read Tyler and Updike and Steinbeck and Gaitskill. I did not have a single story of America.
“One of the strangest things about life is that it will chug on, blind and oblivious, even as your private world - your little carved-out sphere - is twisting and morphing, even breaking apart. One day you have parents; the next day you’re an orphan. One day you have a place and a path. The next day you’re lost in the wilderness. And still the sun rises and clouds mass and drift and people shop for groceries and toilets flush and blinds go up and down. That’s when you realize that most of it - life, the relentless mechanism of existing - isn’t about you. It doesn’t include you at all. It will thrust onward even after you’ve jumped the edge. Even after you’re dead.”—Lauren Oliver, Delirium (via iateadork)