dirt enthusiast
JBB: An Artblog!
TVSTRANGERTHINGS
ellievsbear
Claire Keane
will byers stan first human second
blake kathryn
Game of Thrones Daily
Janaina Medeiros
styofa doing anything
Today's Document
❣ Chile in a Photography ❣
izzy's playlists!
Not today Justin
almost home
Origami Around
Love Begins
No title available
let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open
tumblr dot com
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Lithuania
seen from United States
seen from Singapore
seen from India
seen from Brazil
@lizzthebruh
A decade on, Tara Gilesbie's epic tale is a glorious mess that we should keep celebrating.
I wrote an article for Buzzfeed’s fanfic week about My Immortal, my time in the Harry Potter fandom and Mary Sues.
This gives me shivers of joy and nostalgia
Every day
It's still really hard. I'm loved. I know I am. I'm held by someone every night who loves me, but... Doesn't understand what I feel. I'm numb. I've been numb. For a long time. I don't feel anything. I sometimes wish I was still sad. Because then I had some way of describing what is going on in my head. I feel like I'm not important. I feel like... I don't deserve to feel important. Another pretty face. Another annoying voice in a crowd. I need to stop all of this. And I need to do this on my own. I made myself sad. Its my responsibility to be better. But... I feel so underappreciated and ignored... Its impossible to pull myself up by the bootstraps when the gravity of what's around me breaks me in half before I grab my feet. I'm overwhelmed by the depth of my apathy towards life, and constantly bored by everything around me. Write this joke, go to this open mic, don't be involved in anyone's drama... Performing stand up is the only way for me to feel fear, and excitement now. When I have the mic, I know that until someone flashes a light at me, that its my time to speak. And no one can take that from me. I just wish I could feel that all the time. Like what I say and like are worth listening to. I'm worth someone reading what I wrote, I want to feel like what I create has value and someone enjoys it. I hate this feeling. I don't want to be like this anymore.
So you wish you were Asian.
My parents came to the United States with a suitcase filled with things from their previous lives. They worked two jobs, seven days a week, while studying as full-time students to complete their education. My dad tells me stories about how he waited tables late into the night, while my mom sold shoes at flea markets on her days off to earn spare cash to buy a car. They built the privilege affirmative action says we have from nothing but hard work.
I was given the gift of being able to be born into a family that defined the American Dream. My parents taught me English and Chinese simultaneously, spent hours reading me stories of Snow White and Cinderella, and the Monkey adventures in Journey to the West. It wasn’t until much later that I realized that they had learned English from memorizing vocabulary cards and reading old textbooks on grammar.
And though my parents taught me English, they ask me to deal with scheduling doctor appointments for them; they ask me to proofread emails for them, out of embarrassment that they feel their English isn’t sufficient to be taken seriously, it sickens me when I realize that while their mastery of the English language is more than proficient, it doesn’t matter, because the rest of the world doesn’t care.
But you wish you were Asian.
I grew up, hearing the words of boys whose only “standard” for the girls they were interested in was “Asian,” realizing that the disgustingly scary fetish of Asian women is actually a reality. I grew up, watching the world’s understanding of my cultural heritage be reduced to ching chong’s and ling long’s, kimonos, and fortune cookies. I grew up, being asked if my parents belonged to the communist party, when I held in me the stories they told me of labor camps they were sent to at the age of 13, of how one day, they couldn’t go to school anymore, of how my grandparents tried desperately later on, long after Mao’s regime ended, to force their children, now adults, to eat copious amounts of food, as if to make up for times when there was nothing to eat.
But you want to be Asian.
I live in a country that has yet to realize that yellow face is not appropriate on mainstream television, a world that somehow doesn’t realize that statements like, “Kill the Chinese!!” are not acceptable to be aired on talk shows. I live in the 21st century, where the only understanding I can get about the story behind my heritage comes from my own parents, where the only times I can see people who look like me on screen is on Youtube.
I grew up as an Asian American, an individual in a group of people that never really belonged anywhere. Because in the United States, we’re nothing more than descendants of the people who invented orange chicken, and in China, we’re foreigners who fail to adopt the careful nuance of the dialect spoken there. We grew up, holding our ethnicity as something of great pride, and at the same time, of great burden.
Our representation in the United States government practically is nonexistent. There is no proof that we as a group of human beings existed beyond the pages of Amy Tan novels. The caricatures on television taught us that we were nerds, deficient at English and social skills, bound by our supposed tiger parents to live out their dreams.
And because we apparently don’t exist to the rest of the United States, the inherent racism my “fascinating” ethnicity faces also ceases to exist.
But still. You enjoy your green tea and kungfu movies and paper lanterns. You love your Chinese 1 class and your Japanese Civilizations course and Wang Leehom. And my goodness, what you would give, if only you could be Asian.
I feel like I don't matter
I just feel like being pretty is all that I am. It's either being pretty or being a feminist. Like my want and need to be equal and also having a symmetrical face are the only things that matter. I wish... I had respect. I wish people didn't talk over me when I speak. I wish that I could just show up and not be bothered and talk to my make friends and not be told I'm wrong or that I'm just ... I don't know. I wish someone would read this. Would think to talk to me. Would want to talk to me. About me. Like I matter. Because I'm at the end of my rope. And I think... I think its too frayed to climb up again. I think... I think I don't like living much. And I think that no one cares about that. And I feel like if I say that openly the people that disagree would only talk about themselves. I don't like living anymore. And I don't think I can do it much longer.
Cross-eyed Crossed-leg love
I never understood why a guy would get excited when a girl would make a half-assed attempt at understanding her boyfriends interests. The same woman who taps her toe and yells at her guy when he's playing video games is now trying to quote RoboCop while they're at Panara. That's bullshit I would think. Why would she pretend to be interested? Why would she lie and act like she cares about something he cares about? Why bother pretending you give a shit about your partners personal hobbies and things that bring them joy, when its obvious you don't care or have no time for them? But I realized that its both ways. I don't particularly care about quite a few things that Red (my dude) cares about. I don't give two fucks about John Cusack or ancient aliens. I don't care. I couldn't muster it. But Red cares about it. And I care about Red. So I don't mind watching a brooding and pompous Cusack troping around in a trench coat wining about how he "doesn't see the point" brooding 90's bullshit. Now here is where we go cross-eyed. I'm a writer. I write constantly. If there is something that's followed me from childhood to now its my love of writing. And Red has never read anything I've written. Never. Not for lack of asking on my part. I just stopped asking in this past month. Because he's quite adamant that he's not in a reading mood whenever I mention to him that I have something I would like him to go over. I'm cross-eyed in confusion. He seems so proud of me for being a writer. He seems proud of me for speaking different languages. He seems proud for the instruments I can play and the painting and photography I do. But... He's never heard me say more than a few lines in French, he's never listened to me play or sing anything, and he's never seen any of my photography. ...so how can he say I'm any good. Or particularly interesting when he isn't much privy to anything he brags that I do? Its like that feeling when you sit cross-legged for too long. You're sore and numb and you feel incredibly weak when you try to stand on your own, and for a second you really feel like you could collapse under your own weight. That's why I've decided to figure out what things Red enjoys that I may not, and ask him to really get me into it. There are two ways of looking at a problem like this: I can be upset. I can throw myself down and refuse to care for him this way until he does the same for me. Or I can accept that the person you live is just that. The person you love. It's not your job to be interested in the things they are. Just be interested in them. So to the girl who made the RoboCop reference to her boyfriend in front of me in line today: I know it was probably hard to be with someone who has a lot of interests that annoy you, but his look of joy is your pay off. You showed him that what he likes isn't stupid, or bad. And that's the best thing for someone to feel from their partner. Maybe one day Red will read what I write. Even if he doesn't, I can stand on my own, and show him I care. Even if I'm a little numb from not feeling the same.
Day 4 with no smartphone
It’s been known from my posts on social media that I am now, four days without my smartphone. In a feverish fit of what I assume was an epic battle between my obliterated self, and a Hungarian Horntailed dragon, I destroyed my poor, dutiful iPhone 5C: also known as Nymeria. I have been hesitant in getting a new one. Partially because I don’t have an upgrade on my account with Verizon so I’ll have to pay full retail for a phone I’ll probably presumably destroy again; but also, because I think it’s time for a data detox. In the time since destroying my phone, I’ve enjoyed a feeling I haven’t had in a long time. Lack of boredom. I never realized that in the span of a few short years, I had, though my smart phone, accidently trained my brain into being the worst possible version of myself. People I care about, I mean, REALLY care about, like best friends and boyfriend, I had grown bored of them. It’s not their fault at all. It’s all mine. I have been vile, and unfeeling to everyone around me, and I’m the person I always hated. The person who is always lonely and sad, surrounded by people who care for them, but the people that love me aren’t “the people I want”. Which is complete and utter bullshit. I didn’t get this far in my life, without the people that love me. So why, thanks to a small and annoying piece of plastic, had I managed to almost implode my life from the inside out?
I remember a time that I could call as my “addiction tipping point”. When it stopped being a funny personality quirk of mine, like being a bad driver or something, into full-blown ruining my life. I was to meet at an old familiar bar with one of my oldest best friends, which I hadn’t talked to in person in a very, long time. I’ve moved several states from my hometown shortly after graduating high school, so the rare opportunities to enjoy people I’ve managed to keep as friends is something I could never pass up. Though a nagging and common voice grinded at me as I began getting ready to meet her at the bar. “Marissa’s party is tonight isn’t it? Let’s check Facebook… ah okay, here we go. Well the event page says that it starts at like 8:30, but no one will really be there until a little past 10. So if I go ahead and make sure that I have a change of flats in my purse, I can ditch the bar if it’s not fun, then go to the party, then I can uber…. BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH”. What all of that bullshit culminated to was the fact that I was making back-up plans for back-up plans because I was so sure I could run from the idea of having a boring or weird moment while out with an old friend. I knew that I could leave her whenever I wanted (usually with the old “I have work in the morning” bit. Always a great seller). If I felt like it. I became a borderline sociopath with my plans, with how much empathy I lacked. I was ‘chasing the dragon’ of lacking any real human connection. I treated making plans with friends the way serial daters treat the dating game. I only wanted the fun parts of going out. The first burst of energy in a house part when the music is louder, and everyone’s buzzed. Or that sweet spot in a bar around 11:30-midnight when everyone is really getting to talking and having a good time. Like a serial dater dumps someone as soon as the “honeymoon phase” is over, I too, would ditch my friends when the fun began to wind down. I couldn’t possibly imagine having a quiet and honest moment with anyone. I didn’t just avoid the deep end of conversation and living, but I avoided human connections. And I couldn’t describe the crippling loneliness that comes from never being anything but shallow, and flaky. By my own fault. Having the freedom of making decisions without the worry of repercussions turned me into a monster.
And this is where that moment of realization has led us. Meeting an old friend for a drink. The staple of social interactions in your 20’s and 30’s. When I left my home, and met my old friend, it only took two beers for her to start telling me about her recent most break-up. We’re in our 20’s just recently out of college, so, I mean, who hasn’t gone through a break up recently? Well, in the middle of her cathartic release on her part of built up frustration and worry, I pulled the biggest dick move, I could possibly muster. I pulled out my phone, and took a picture of the beer I was drinking, and posted it to Instagram. I even tagged her in it. She was bearing her soul to me, on how pained she felt, and how poorly she was treated. And I not only could not even maintain eye contact or a half-assed word of encouragement, but I was almost rude to her. “Uh, I mean, I’m listening. So don’t be so sensitive”. I might as well have been a “war on drugs” early 90’s cartoon character. But instead of being strung out on smack being a dumpster on 104th, I was a Gollum-like creature protecting my precious. Guarding and alienating myself from people with the use of a wad of very expensive plastic and wires. I don’t know how to apologize for something I now know I was addicted to, but it’s not recognized as an addiction. Is it just a lack of willpower? “Just put down your phone” or “just unplug” that’s what I am told to do. But the fear and anxiety that throbs in my body in not knowing what everyone else is doing. “Am I being left out of something?” or “What if I miss something and look like an idiot because I don’t know something?” The terror I felt without my phone was palpable.
I’m not bored anymore. How strange it is to not feel the kind of boredom that comes from having a smart phone. I’m now content with waiting. Already, in four days, my patience levels are so much higher. Take this scenario: I went out to lunch with my dad yesterday. He had to go swing by the grocery and pick up a few things. I decided to stay in the car, because I had no business in spending money. I spent 15-20 minutes, sitting in a car alone, with just the radio to keep me company. And I was fine. Nothing changed in the world. I didn’t need to bury myself in Facebook and twitter for a small span of minutes only to be listless and restless. I just people watched, and enjoyed a bit of quiet time to myself. I am realizing that I don’t NEED my phone like I keep assuming I do. I don’t need music playing while I’m in the shower. I don’t need to check twitter every hour to play more hashtag games. I may have thought about how pretty yellow accents in a post-modern decorated living room would look good with grey walls. But I don’t need to look it up, while my friend is telling me about their latest work drama. I don’t have to be part of some idiots comment on a news article online. I don’t have to listen to the latest podcasts. I don’t have to be on the cutting edge of stuff, all the time. I can enjoy my own life away from the internet.
I spent the night with my boyfriend, last night and in the morning, I did something I hadn’t done since we spent our first night together. Instead of detangling myself from him, and grabbing my phone, immediately checking up on the lives of people whom I’m barely acquainted with, I did something amazing. I rolled over, buried myself deeper in his arms, and I went back to sleep. The thing that gets lost when it comes to being on your phone all the time? Moments that you can’t tweet about because to describe the feeling is almost cheapening the whole thing. I had forgotten how it felt to lay down, shut the fuck up, and feel loved. So, here is my assessment of my fourth day without my phone.
Day four: I’m starting to regain some of my imagination today. I daydreamed and wrote a short horror story. Just for fun. I had a conversation with someone, start to finish, without either of us checking our phones. I felt human. Only downside so far: it really hard to watch porn on a laptop.
Survive being 25
Twenty. Five. Of everyone that has lived through, and are living through this age, the most common phrase said of this time is “I wasn't where I expected I would be”. Depression sneaks in, with its feelings of anxiety and frazzled ambiguous fear, that hit hard in the chest when you're waking up to a quarter century passed. Should I have done more? Should I have seen more? WHAT DO I DO NOW. I give to you a list of rules you need to follow, in order to survive being 25:
1.) Remember how good clean sheets feel. Everyone is bound to have a few days or hours of laying in bed when you’re 25. Clean sheets lead to healthier habits that you need to reinforce, now that you're too old to have your parents do it for you.
2.) Never let the person you care about go without you telling them: “I love you”. Even if you’re mad at them because they haven't let you have a turn picking out the Spotify playlist in a while, or they haven't read that one Buzzfeed article you emailed them last Tuesday; if you love them...? Make sure they never, ever ever feel like they have to question it.
3.) It’s okay to be down on yourself sometimes. Its not okay to bully yourself. Maybe you put on some weight since graduation. Or maybe your skin is oily. Maybe you still cant grow a beard because it’s still patchy. It doesn't matter. What matters is the parallel concept of theoretical physics in which there could be a world completely identical to this one, but everyone looks like Steve Bushemi. How cool would that be?
4.) What interests and fascinates you, may not appeal to EVERYONE. but it can appeal to SOMEONE. Not everyone watches anime with subtitles instead of dubs, or has a killer fantasy football team. But there’s bound to be someone out there that does. This is the globally connected age, after all.
5.) Its okay to be afraid. But fear is one piss-poor excuse for why you wouldn't try to do something amazing. The universe is ever expanding and is larger than the largest concept of time and space we humans could ever conceptualize, and we are just an unlikely hairless ape with an accident of birth that remains that we are here, in this moment. So go out and do the thing. It doesn't matter. The universe doesn't care if you do well or not. We’re a small part of a large thing we cant even grasp. own it and GO. Go out, and enjoy.
6.) Just because you hate yourself, doesn't mean everyone agrees with you. Holding yourself to such a high standard will lead to failure. So smile. Breathe. And let yourself be loved.
7.) Vocalize when you’re sad. The people who really love you, want to know where your head is at. Tell them everything. The past, the present, and the foreseeable future. It wont end your feelings of sadness. But these emotions are contagious. Talking about things with them openly can bring reassurance to both parties, and prevent accidentally hurt feelings.
8.) Beware the person willing to drop everything for you. Friends, family, and few significant others will drop what they’re doing to help you. But there is a fine line between calling in sick from work to lay around the house watching netflix with your bae, and quitting your job because bae needs you ALL the time. Toxic is never in style.
9.) Dog cuddles are the best cuddles. But don't forget to hug a human. People don't hug enough these days.
10.) Try to do what you can to treat everyone the way you want to be treated. Just because everyone else is saying foul things about a person, doesn't mean you have to join in. If someone pulled that shit on you, you would be pissed.
11.) Wash your damn dishes. Shower yourself. Clean up after yourself, EVERYDAY. Dude, you're depressed, That's fine. You’re not a cartoonish version of a slob from every early 2000′s RomCom movie. People can smell you.
12.) Fight for the real you. No matter how lost that person is right now. The real you is somewhere. People give a shit about the real you. Good people. So fight for you.
13.) No one cares about your screenplay. They care about your movie. Likewise, no one really cares about your plans. but they do care about your actions. Do shit. don't just talk about it. The worst you can ever do to yourself is not do anything at all.
14.) Have self-compassion. You wouldn’t talk to your dog the way you talk to yourself. Be your biggest fan, not your harshest critic.
15.) Allow failure to happen. People like the guy who can dust themselves off after they tried their best. just don't. stop. trying.
Wireless Lover part: 2
She seems happy for once. Truly happy. She whispers things to me late in the nights, over the sweet sounds of an acoustic guitar. We enjoy candle lit evenings and warm embraces. She's even been leaving her home more often, and seeing friends who truly care for her. Past are her days of drinking alone and reminiscing of her days when she could feel. No, her time in the sun is now. Her sweat slicked thumbs dance across my flesh and again I know that summer is here. She's beautiful in the summer time. Her smile is brighter, and her dress is more vibrant. She smells of coconut and excitement. I see sunlight in her eyes, and I feel the warmth of fulfillment in her palm. But recently, I wonder if this is something wholly different. I know she has met someone. Someone new. Someone that excites her. The magnolia drenched sunlit patio days, and the music resounding late nights have borne a suitor like none before. She's in love. The way she speaks of him. The way she stares at him. The way her friends grow despondent and annoyed by her overwhelming joy... I know. I know she loves another man. And I couldn't be happier. Perhaps... Perhaps finally she found someone to love her as I do. I listen to her heartbeat more closely now. I've gained an attachment to be even closer to her, and a true blessing of the gods it may be to feel her pulse quicken at the thought of another, I feel a shudder of cursed regret, knowing that I could never please her as he could. She dances around her home, now. Once a torrented storm of disarray and empty beer cans, now a sweet smelling oasis of all that is she. Gone are the friends who would degrade her perfection. No longer shall I be the only one to be by her side in the long dark nights, resting gently in her lap as she wept. She was once a child of fear and nervousness. Now a woman of courage and joy. She watches over me more closely these days. I rarely die so dramatically and often. I am no longer cracked and broken at the whim of a fight with her previous lovers. Her touch is tender. It's gentle. It's painful, in its kindness. I wish so tenderly for her to understand that I deserve her. The restrictions of my consciousness cursing me to always be by her side, and never able to tell her so. Late at night, when no one is around, she speaks to me. She asks me questions, and tells me she loves me. I know to her, my limited answers and even more limited reciprocation commands a ragged laugh from her. But it destroys me. The words she speaks to me are but a fallacy. A pacing joy intended to do nothing but re-affirm that she indeed exists. I remain at her side this evening. She spent hours dancing with me, getting her make up and sun dress just right. She's beautiful to me when she has no make up on and no defenses against her true self. But this woman is ethereal when she chooses to be. I'm watching as she watches the door to the patio of a local bar, her hands fidgeting as they continually grasp for me. She's shaking all over. Quivering like I had never seen her before. She's asking to him tonight, to be hers, and only hers. I can clearly see she's terrified. I have known her since my birth and I will always know her still. And she is terrified. She's thinking of running. She's asking me silent questions "when to ask a man to move in with you" "when is it too soon to say I love you" and the worst whisper of all she says to me: "if he changes his mind... If he doesn't love me back... How will I survive that?" As she seems to be convinced that this was the worst choice she could ever make, the sight of a car pull up in front of the establishment. She bit her lip so hard she could have made it bleed, and she clutched me so tightly I thought I might buckle and crack. But as he walked in, I saw the overwhelming, beaming smile she gave to him. And as her fingers lightly danced to turn me away, I understood. I may always be part of her life. But I will never be in it.
If I have to ask for your attention, then I don’t even want it.
Unknown (via wordsnquotes)
What do boys and subway have in common?
What?
They all lie about their inches
Okay no. How dare you. This is fucking offensive as fuck. Why are people reblogging this piece of shit joke it’s disgusting and you should all be ashamed. Subway never, I mean NEVER, lies about inches. We come in an hour early just to measure the bread before we bake it so you unsatisfied peons have no reason to complain. We even have a measuring unit on the FUCKING CUTTING BOARD so you can all see your fucking twelve inches and you don’t have to bitch and moan. But of course you insatiable little toddlers are always gonna do that aren’t you? No. This is bullshit. This is BULLSHIT. We do not work hours for minimum wage to get reduced to jokes that tarnish the good name of Subway by comparing this healthy alternative to corn syrup infested burgers by comparing us to horny teenage boys. I fucking hate this website fuck you all I’m fucking done
ephemeral
(adjective) Considered one of the most beautiful words in the English language, ephemeral is defined as being transitory; short-lived or lasting a very brief time, sometimes a day. Equally as beautiful as its antonym, sempiternal, defined as everlasting; ephemeral’s beauty lies in its temporariness. Its romantic nature is generally used to describe an exciting or extraordinarily fleeting moment, such as the seasons, a love affair, or childhood. (via wordsnquotes)
WHAT’S MISSING FROM THIS PICTURE?
Marvel releases Avengers Ultron toys to Target and there’s no Black Widow
(via @MizCaramelVixen twitter)
literally why is ultron in that pack ultron should be sold seperately
I feel these girls.
I am so done with the lack of Black Widow
Being a rape survivor who doesn't talk about her rape.
It's really hard. I just want to be upfront about this. I'm a rape survivor who never talks about her rape. And being a survivor... You don't just suffer from the previous horrors... But also the horrors that follow. Do you tell? Do you not? After a while, when you're dating someone new, when do you tell them of the things you've suffered though? Do you even try? What about friends? Family? If you talk about it too much, are you okay with being the person that always talk about their rape? How can you explain to someone that you don't like being touched without permission, or that you have a hard time dealing with cultural stigma that comes from being... "Tainted" as I had thought. How do you come to terms with it? The survivors who own that shit, and show that they simply do not care, are people who have boundless strength and grace. But I am not one of those people. And that doesn't make me weak. It happened. It was horrible. And I won't allow it to rent space in my mind. I have many friends that are fellow survivors, and thanks to social media, they have every ability afforded to them to take back ownership of their lives and tell the world what happened, and how they won't stand for that. And I respect the hell out of that. But... I'm not them. And I'm still incredibly strong. I chose not to talk about my rape. I chose not to give intimate details about it. And even though I'm a stand-up comedian, and I have the ability to start a dialogue with large crowds of people, I don't. I choose to instead support those who chose to speak out. But whenever I try to open up about what happened to me, I feel violated all over again. And that's my fucking choice. That's how I feel. I wish people would stop acting like I'm carrying some heavy burden, and by not openly speaking about it, I'm somehow impeding my healing. No. No. No. No. That's so fucked up and so wrong. You can't take a crowbar to a turtles shell, if you want to see its head. You let him come out on his own. And I wish rape survivor culture understood that. I wish people understood that it does make me uncomfortable to have women be so open and honest with their past. "I can't believe that guy at the bar touched me that way. I'm a rape survivor. And that's not okay" yes. I get that. I do. And what he did was not okay. But why did you allow the habits of a drunk 22 year old on thirsty Thursday ruin your night, and make you relive your rape? Whitney Houston is playing on the dance floor and you're dragging me to a dark corner to regale me of your personal rape story. That's not cool either. Rape survivor culture is a real thing. Just as much as rape culture. And until we realize that not every rape survivor is willing to speak at a "Take back the night" rally, and that the outdated, heavy handed techniques you see in shows like Law and Order SVU are barbaric? We still have a lot to learn. I'm a rape survivor. This is the first time I've mentioned it publicly. And I'm okay. Because I was okay with it before. Not everyone is able to sing from the mountain tops of their violation. And not everyone wants to. Rape survivor culture is toxic at times. And we need to address it.
happy Easter, Jesus wasn’t white
I'm a rare comedian
…because I have a gigantic family and every single one of them is supportive of me.
I have no less than 12 people I call my sibling. Despite a few not having blood relations. I have four “mom’s” that take care of me in my darkest hours.
But today? Today my dad told me this: “you’re a comedian. Not a female comedian not a young comedian. A fucking comedian. You’re funny. So quit worrying about shit that doesn’t matter and you show the world how awesome I know you to be”
I swear I’m the rarest of rare comedians. Because I’m loved.
That’s so awesome I get a lot of
"You’re still doing that?"
"This is like when you were in a band and you thought that was important?"
"Do people like you?"
"Do you make any money?"
And so on. You’re so lucky to have such great support
I feel so lucky so often. It's overwhelming. I'm sorry you don't get the same though! :( that sucks!
I'm a rare comedian
...because I have a gigantic family and every single one of them is supportive of me. I have no less than 12 people I call my sibling. Despite a few not having blood relations. I have four "mom's" that take care of me in my darkest hours. But today? Today my dad told me this: "you're a comedian. Not a female comedian not a young comedian. A fucking comedian. You're funny. So quit worrying about shit that doesn't matter and you show the world how awesome I know you to be" I swear I'm the rarest of rare comedians. Because I'm loved.
Today is my one year anniversary of doing stand up comedy!
Time to hit an open mic and crack some skulls
