BENEDICT: During the second week of Hamlet, my publicist asked me if I could meet briefly with a fan. It’s a common enough request, and, of course, I dread it. But he said, “look, she’s written a bunch of odd, intrusive, sexual stories about you, and this brilliant, as-yet-unpublished scholarly monograph on two leading pieces of Mystrade fanfic–”
BENEDICT (waves dismissively): It’s the imagined pairing of Lestrade and Mycroft, it’s the only slash worth reading, it’s brilliant, it makes so much sense.
This can’t be happening. I’m just an ordinary teen.
“I met that girl today,” I told my aunt-mom later that afternoon. “She’s real.” My aunt-mom sighed. “I guess it’s time we finally told you the truth.” She finally told me the truth, and I had to spend some time accepting it. It changed everything I thought I knew. Who could I even trust now?
“The locket I’ve had ever since I was a baby?” I said, wearing my favorite pair of beat-up Converse sneakers. “But what does that have to do with the prophecy?” It turns out, pretty much everything.
“But I don’t have any cousins,” I said. My dad, who I thought had just given up on life after my mom died but it turns out was actually protecting me from a terrible secret, shook his head. “You have more cousins than you could possibly have imagined, and they’re all terrible. You come from a long line of terrible, magical people.”
“But I’m just a regular teen,” I cried. “My room is messy and I like cereal.”
[MARILLA’s neighbor RACHEL LYNDE comes to call] RACHEL: Well, Marilla I can’t say I think she looks like much, but you always did know your own mind ANNE[lights a cigarette]: funny i don’t recall asking you what you thought about a fucking thing
This play began with some promise. I liked the part about the genius doing brilliant work based on scientific principles that nobody around him has the capacity to understand. But then everybody started bothering him about his emotions and singing about loving him all the time and I lost interest.
Jessica enjoys playing sports with her group of attractive, racially diverse friends and going out on the weekends. Here she is during a game of touch football.
Blanche DuBois enjoys spiraling into madness. She must move in with her younger sister because she has turned thirty. Due to her being thirty, she finds lightbulbs and the harsh glare of the noon sun painful (because being thirty is taking away her beautiful face).
Alexandra Flanagan and Phoenix Tso present the results of a five-year attempt to improve the way Tufts addresses sexual misconduct on campus.
We published this completely mammoth investigatory piece on how students at Tufts have attempted to change how the university deals with survivors of sexual assault, and I am afraid that no one will actually read it, so I would really appreciate a signal boost from campus feminists and allies.
Mallory has written the most perfect parody of all YA dystopia novels:
Now, society’s bad. There was only one way for society to survive. Society’s real bad. Our society was bad after the War because of bad things. Remember all the things about your society right now? Just make ‘em worse, that’s our society. Nothing’s trees but everything’s brown leggings and government.
After years of silence, JK Rowling finally speaks the truth about Ronbledore.
“I have said this before and I will say it again: I will never be intimidated into silence about Ronbledore. Wake up, sheeple. The evidence is already all there in the books. Did Cedric Diggory know too much about Ronbledore? Why is “Cho Chang” an anagram for “Weasley Time Prison”? Why does Parvati Patil keep referring to Ron as “Headmaster Time-Child” during the Yule Ball before she dissolves into a disembodied ball of gas? We’re through the looking glass, here.”
Manisha Aggarwal-Schifellite explains what “Bend It Like Beckham” meant to her as an Indian-Canadian growing up in Toronto. A lot, as it turns out.
I love love love this piece, and it got cut off by a file error yesterday, so please read it, and if you’ve already read it, read the whole thing, and otherwise just do me a personal favour and reblog it because I feel bad for the author that it got cut off!
The very air seemed to hum with green light cast by lush, illusory heaps of kale, and to reek with the rubberish tang of newly unfurled yoga mats. Bandwidth gleamed from a vigorous spiffing of dating profiles. It was a new year, and everyone was making resolutions, and she wanted no part of it….
Welhouse: I also got a couple marriage proposals to pass on to you, overwhelmingly from young women.
Block: [laughs] I was going to guess they were from young women! My boyfriend is always saying to me, “It’s the girls! It’s those girls. We go anywhere for those readings, and that’s who comes up to you.” I’m waiting for some 50-year-old man to come up, but it’s always young women.
Welhouse: Well, now I can tell them that I’ve passed their messages on.
Block: Wait. One thing. Tell them that I love them, too. Because believe me, I fall in love with all my readers so often. They’re amazing women. So, thank them, from my heart.
Hi. I’m Ani DiFranco. You may remember me from such things as singing like a wizard trapped inside an aged toad is trapped inside of my throat and being allergic to capital letters. I’m here to talk to you about something that’s very close to my heart today: writing songs on old slavery plantations.
Like all the best satire, Mallory’s is almost indistinguishable from the original.
“In 1736 I lost one of my sons, a fine boy of four years old, by the small-pox, taken in the common way. I long regretted bitterly, and still regret that I had not given it to him by inoculation. This I mention for the sake of parents who omit that operation, on the supposition that they should never forgive themselves if a child died under it; my example showing that the regret may be the same either way, and that, therefore, the safer should be chosen.”—Oh, look, BEN FRANKLIN knew more about vaccination than half of the people on Facebook in 2013. (From "The Autobiography of Benjamin Franklin")
1. Let me fix you, Thorin Oakenshield. (cue the Coldplay montage)
2. Why are Thorin and Kili (and, arguably, Fili) totally legit, human-looking, attractive men, andeveryone elselooks like they are actually a different species?
3. Like, if you saw Thorin or Kili at a bar, you’d say “well, they’re short, but at night all cats are grey,” or some other Victorian euphemism for “10/10 would bang,” but if you saw, say, Balin, you would probably call the army.
This Femslash Friday honors the classic pairing of Rory/Paris from Gilmore Girls.
Not only is this the best, she says THIS about Jess:
Jess – Worthless. Worse than worthless. At the time, of course, we did not yet know that loving a man who enjoys Kerouac novels was morally wrong — the science wasn’t quite there yet — but we already knew that Jess’ busy wall-leaning schedule wasn’t leading anywhere good. I will not go so far as to accuse him of wearing leather bracelets, but he seems exactly the type of man who would do so, given half the chance at an 18+ concert. “Oh, I’m too consumed by my own inner pain to arrive to events on time.” “I invented record stores; guess how many cigarettes I can fit into my mouth.” “I love you so much I moved to California without telling you.” “How can you expect me to plan a date, I’m too full of smoldering emotionsto know what day of the week it is.” He wrote a book called The Subsect. I will listen to nothing good about this jean-jacket-festooned wastrel. Begone, you gel-smeared, sneering fop. You are no Ryan Atwood. You have no heart of gold underneath those ill-fitting wifebeaters. Take your baby-boy-Pink act on the road. Your powers will not work here.
Over at The Toast, we’re talking about hazy memories of books we read as kids, and crowdsourcing to figure out authors and titles! It’s a lot of fun, and maybe you could help? Here’s my three mystery books:
1. It’s a girl whose mom is dead, and she has, like, a book of leaves that her mom had pressed, and she and her dad move to a new house, and I think her dad marries a new wife with a kid, and the kid destroys the book of leaves.
2. Dystopian underground society, boy is trained from birth to remember strings of numbers, eventually has to, like, use this ability to activate/deactive a weapon? Chilly father figure.
3. This one is NOT Half Magic. It’s a kid who gets sent back to Arthurian times during a field trip, or some such thing, and his mom is too, and she keeps waiting for the cream tea she was promised in the brochure. This one is making me really nuts, so please help.
Reblogging encouraged, because I’m beginning to think I just dreamt up #3.
From "My Female Students Don't Seem As Impressed With Me As They Used To"
HANK: “It’s getting harder and harder to awe these inexperienced female teenagers these days, Smitty.”
SMITTY: “Tell me about it, Hank.”
HANK: “Just yesterday, in one of my intro classes, I used the word ‘problematic’ in a sentence — real casual, just to let them know I’m one of the good guys — and not one of them stayed after the lecture to ask me just what I meant by that or to see if they could borrow the conspicuously dog-eared copy of Pedagogy of the Oppressed I like to leave on my desk in case any female students want to borrow it.”
SMITTY passes the bottle back to HANK.
SMITTY: “Things are bad all over.”
HANK: “You know, it’s very important to me that I be thought of as down.”
HANK: “That copy has my phone number in it. You know, the old ‘write your phone number on the front page of a copy you lend to female students only under the “IF LOST PLEASE RETURN TO” bubble’ gag?”
There’s a big, boring problem in the world of slash pairings, and the answer starts with Mellie/Olivia.
The first of Mallory’s weekly Femslash Friday posts: in which Mellie and Olivia wear tiaras and rock each other’s sexual worlds. Tumblr, make it happen. You know about the gifs and things, right? Next week is already slated for Brienne/Sansa.
Every woman must decide how not to sleep with Jonathan Franzen in her own way. I learned from my grandmother, a wise woman who lived in the forest and only very rarely slept with Jonathan Franzen. She told me once, on a frosty winter night, how best to escape his sexual clutches if I ever encountered him on the path that led to the nearest market town.
“You will know him,” she said, “for he shall be riding on a white steed, and his right hand will bear no glove. When you see him, you must rush at him, and throw your kirtle over him, and hold fast to him, no matter what form he may take as he struggles against you.”
“What forms will he take?” I said. She leaned in close to me and stoked up the fire.