change the world today by doing a thing
How much thing?
like 8 thing
That’s too much thing
Happy graduation!
(via rampaigehalseyface)
Postcards from Space: Why Do Men Keep Putting Me in the Girlfriend-Zone?
You know how it is, right, ladies? You know a guy for a while. You hang out with him. You do fun things with him—play video games, watch movies, go hiking, go to concerts. You invite him to your parties. You listen to his problems. You do all this because you think he…
Awesome.
Spray-on Clothing becomes a Reality
A Spanish fashion designer has developed the world’s first spray-on clothing that can be worn, washed and worn again.
Manel Torres joined forces with scientists at Imperial College London to invent the spray, which forms a seamless fabric on contact with the body.
Torres took 15 minutes to spray a T-shirt onto a male model in a demonstration today, ahead of his spring/summer collection at the Science in Style fashion show in London next week.
The spray consists of short fibres that are mixed into a solvent, allowing it to be sprayed from a can or high-pressure spray gun. The fibres are mixed with polymers that bind them together to form a fabric. The texture of the fabric can be varied by using wool, linen or acrylic fibres.
The fabric, which dries when it meets the skin, is very cold when it is sprayed on, a limitation that may frustrate hopes for spray-on trousers and other garments. [READ MORE…]
Not noted: how the fabric interacts with hairs on the body. Always a problem with spray-on clothing. Good for socks though, I suppose.
I suppose in the future, we will all have evolved beyond body hair.
The Potoo - Either the most unphotogenic or the most ridiculous looking bird in the world.
unphotogenic? these are my favorite pictures of any bird ever
my spirit animal
they look as beautiful as they sound.
That’s not a bird, that’s a MUPPET
For MechaFaux.
(Source: iwasteyourprecioustime, via ktshy)
Random Mad Men Thought on Offices
After the merger, they put Ted Chaough in Roger’s old office. Roger moved into Harry’s. Harry moved into … whose office? Ken’s? A closet?
Don didn’t get moved though. Neither did Joan (though her office was never a great spot).
Significance?
(Harry’s so getting let go or quitting at some point this season. He’s become such a butt.)
Laurie Penny’s Saudade
There are more of us than you think, kicking off our high-heeled shoes to run and being told not so fast
The best minds of my generation consumed by craving, furious half naked starving-
Who ripped tights and dripping make up smoked alone in bedsits bare mattresses waiting for transfiguration.
Who ran half dressed out of department stores yelling that we didn’t want to be good and beautiful
Who glowing high and hopeful were the last to leave the gig our skin crackling with lust and sweat and pure music
Who wrote poetry on each other’s arms and cared more about fucking than being fuckable
Who worked until our backs stiffened and our limbs sang with the memory of misbehaviour that was what it was to be a woman
Who dared to dance until dawn and were drugged and raped by men in clean T-shirts and woke up scared and sore to be told it was our fault
Who swallowed bosses’ patronizing side-eyes stole away from violent broken boys in the middle of the night and vowed never again to try to fix the world one man at a time
Who slammed down the tray of drinks and tore off our aprons and aching smiles and went scowling out into the streets looking for change
Who stripped in dark rooms for strangers’ anodyne dollars because we wanted education and were told we were traitors
Who sat faces upturned to the glow of the network searching searching for strangers who would call us pretty
Who bared our breasts to hidden cameras and fought and fought and fought to be human
Who waited in grim hallways with synth-pop crackling over the speaker system for the doctor to call us clutching fistfuls of pamphlets calling us sluts whores murderers
Who crossed continents alone with knapsacks full of books bare limbs clear-eyed vision running running from the homes that held our mothers down
Who filled notebooks with gibberish philosophy and scraps of stories and cameras to prove we were there keeping our novels and the name of out children close to our hearts
Who were told all our lives that we were too loud too tisky too fat too ugly too scruffy too selfish too much too and refused to take up less space refused to be still refused refused refused to be tame
Who would never be still. Who would never shut up. Who were punished for it and spat and snarled and they shook the bars of our cages until they snapped and they called us wild and crazy and we laughed with mouths open hearts open hands open and would never not ever be tame.
Sara, I’m with you in hospital, in the narroe rooms where you have put off your veil to count your ribs through your T-shirt, short hair and secrets and quiet defiance crying together that we don’t know how to be perfect-
Lara, I’m with you in mandatory art therapy, where we draw pictures of weeping cocks and are told we are not making progress-
Lila, I’m with you in a north London bathdroom, watchhing unreal maggots crawl in the cuts in your arms and listening to your girlfriend drunk and raging through the wall-
Andy, I’m with you in Bethnal Green where you love ambitious angry women with heart brain pen fingers tongue and you have a line from Nietzche tattooed over your cunt-
Adele, I’m with you in the student occupation, with your lipstick and cloche hat and teenage lisp drawling that there’s not enough fucking in this revolution and we must take action-
Kay, I’m with you on the night bus, half drunk and high dragging bright-eyed boys home to our bed, where we watch them worn out sleeping and whisper that we will never be married-
Katie, I’m with you in Zuccotti Park, where a broken heart is less important than a broken laptop is less important than a broken future and we watch the cops beating kids bloody on the pavement for daring to ask for more-
Tara, I’m with you in Islington where you have thrown all your pretty dresses out of the window and flushed your medication so you can write and write-
Alex, I’m with you and a bottle of Scotch at two in the morning when you tell me that no man will make us live for ever and we must seduce the city the country the world-
We are always hungry.
There are more of us than you think.
In Japanese, tsundoku means, “the act of buying books and not reading them, leaving them to pile up.”
For more of this morning’s roundup, click here.
OH GOD THIS IS MY LIFE. Especially if it also includes magazines. I’m like a first stage hoarder. It’s terrible.
Where can I drop off magazines to donate somewhere where they’ll be useful? I don’t read Wine Connoisseur or Inc.
(via good-will-stuntin)
Justin Bartels, Impression.
‘The series focuses on the clothing that women think they should wear, or are told what to wear, to impress someone in a sexual manner. There is a physical mark that is left from these clothes, showing the discomfort women go through.’
I will never understand this trend of men feeling the need to comment on how torturous women’s undergarments must be. You definitely aren’t the first man in history to make that presumptuous mistake either.
Justin, dear, I expect you’ve never been a 38DDD and felt the wondrous support of a well-constructed corset or the joy of finding a bra you can actually run in without your own body causing the pain, not the undergarment. If you actually want to show women’s discomfort, I would recommend looking at the discomfort caused by dehumanizing images that decapitates the photographed subject.
See also: the photographer’s assumption that the clothing is necessarily for others (“to impress someone”) rather than the self (see also the panties - maybe she needed to wear a pad? Who knows?).
Most men I know give no shits as to whether a woman wears a bra, and think it’s “hotter” when she’s not. So, not sure what the photographer thinks he’s proving, except the continuing insistence that women be effortlessly beautiful/comfortable/sexual.
It’s kind of funny in a tragic way when a statement asserted as an attempt at feminist critique ignores actual feminine experience in an attempt to speak on behalf of women.
Nope.
Also, men get clothing impression lines too. But you wouldn’t know that from this series disembodied parts.
(Source: anorsexic)
apparently my school made the senior dinner great gatsby themed
because what better theme for a graduation party than the inaccessibility of the american dream
(Source: acoolshark, via good-will-stuntin)
Ever look in the mirror and think, “Yes, I know you,” with eyes narrowed like you’re looking at an old but worthy adversary?
No? Uh me neither.
I’ll look in the mirror and be like “who the hell is this person,” and spend a moment or two trying to convince myself that this is what other people in fact see when they look at me
not even in like a, I-hate-myself way, just … well, I don’t know how to put it.
No I know that feel. It’s like, “Really? That’s not how I look in my head. That’s not entirely right there, no.” Sometimes it feels like a funhouse mirror. Not bad, just, “Huh?”
This is why I like having makeup to remedy when real life seems to look too far from my self-perceived self.
Ever look in the mirror and think, “Yes, I know you,” with eyes narrowed like you’re looking at an old but worthy adversary?
No? Uh me neither.

