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bestrooftalkever:

!!! NEW MARCEL THE SHELL WITH SHOES ON !!!

this is single-handedly curing my jetlag.

There’s a new book! It’s out tomorrow!

Celebrate by starting the video at 1:59 and then hitting refresh over and over. 

Today in quality purchases.

Today in quality purchases.

Tis the season to be horrifying.

Tis the season to be horrifying.

For we have never discovered why, given the brevity of life and the depth of our need and the force of our passions, we do not pursue our own individual happiness with an annihilating zeal, throwing all else to the wind. We know only that we don’t, and that all our goodness, our only claim to glory, resides in this inexplicable devotion to things other than ourselves.

The Chatham School Affair by Thomas H. Cook is just a real mood lifter this week goddamn. 

Getting prepped for Frankfurt Book Fair.

Getting prepped for Frankfurt Book Fair.

(Source: cordjefferson)

"Life is inadequate, Henry," he said finally, his eyes upon me very solemnly. "Sometimes the most we can give, or get, is trust." With that he leaned forward, patted my leg, rose, and went inside. Nor did he ever make any further attempt to explain what he’d said to me. But over the years, as he grew older and I grew older, I came to understand what he’d meant that night, that hunger is our destiny, faith what we use to soothe its dreadful pang.

The Chatham School Affair by Thomas H. Cook is getting real y’all. 

One summer at the fag end of the nineties, I had to go out of London to talk to a literary society, of the sort that must have been old-fashioned when the previous century closed. When the day came, I wondered why I’d agreed to it; but yes is easier than no, and of course when you make a promise you think the time will never arrive: that there will be a nuclear holocaust, or something else diverting. Besides, I had a sentimental yearning for the days of self-improvement; they were founded, these reading clubs, by master drapers and their shopgirl wives; by poetasting engineers, and uxorious physicians with long winter evenings to pass. Who keeps them going these days?

— from “How Shall I Know You?,” by Hilary Mantel, in today’s Barnes & Noble Review.

More like, what’s downward, right? 

More like, what’s downward, right? 

Editors need a fucking door. →

Mr. Bogaards wrote something again.

As communities are heading back to school, we’d like to take a moment to celebrate the educators who are also our Uber partner drivers. Whether it’s an afternoon shift or a summertime gig, partnering with Uber provides teachers with the flexibility and opportunity they need to continue creating a foundation of excellence for students across the country.

Uber Optics

Before I was born, and before he started his twenty-year career as a high school English teacher, my father drove a taxi. 

He only had one story from that time in his life. He had just married my mother and had longish hair and wore dark sunglasses. He looked like every picture you’ve ever seen of your parents in the 70s: big pinpoint collars, khaki pants, that sort of thing. Anyway, one shift an older woman got into his cab and as they pulled away she said something along the lines of “you kids today wear sunglasses all the time, and I know why: it’s because you’re all high on drugs.” 

Cool as can be, he turned around to the woman and said “Lady, I wear these glasses because I’m blind.”

She immediately apologized for her insensitivity.

Anyway, he quit that gig and got a job as a teacher and joined a union and had a pension and retired on disability, all paid for by a deal negotiated between Fairfax County government and the teachers’ union. Now a company that has an app you like is celebrating how educators can become independent contractors, without representation, because society is tired of paying its educators enough to live on teaching alone. This makes me sick.

Well, if it’s in a book it must be true.

Well, if it’s in a book it must be true.

12 year old me is hoping for some stupid pet tricks and/or nobody notices that I’m still awake.

12 year old me is hoping for some stupid pet tricks and/or nobody notices that I’m still awake.

nevver:

Penguin