I’m not saying you’re an asshole, Luke. I’m just saying you seem like the kind of guy who sees a joke Facebook status and instead of just “liking” it, you comment on the status with your own shitty tag for the joke. Luke, you’re an assistant manager at Aeropostale. Stay out of show business. 

Explaining 2010s in 2060s:

Let’s see, what was going on…well, there was a photo of this cat that looked grumpy…that was a thing. Well, he wasn’t sincerely upset, I don’t think, just sort of comically annoyed. What else…

Well there was…

There was other stuff too, I think. But the cat photo was sort of the keystone for us culturally for awhile.

TURN DOWN FOR YOUR FATHER WHO JUST BOUGHT YOU BRAND NEW SOCCER CLEATS AND TOOK YOU AND YOUR SISTER TO PANERA, THAT’S WHAT!

Writing And Masturbation
By Bill Dixon
I wouldn’t dare call myself an expert in creative writing. Although it’s something I do daily, it feels pretentious to apply a hierarchical model to the creation of art. Words like “expert” or “professional” seem silly when applied to something as arbitrary as creativity.
This is the classic writer’s cop-out, deputized at Thanksgiving when you return home from whichever metropolis you have chosen to sublet a closet-sized bedroom. Family and friends ask you how the “writing thing” is going and you regurgitate the prepared statement you concocted at the airport while scanning the never-ending parade of black luggage as it spills onto the conveyor belt at baggage claim.
You’re a writer and you don’t write for The New York Times, The Daily Show, or Two and a Half Men, so you will need an excuse for not achieving the non-writing public’s apparent minimum requirement to be called a “real writer.”
"You know what show I like? That show Breaking Bad!", your functionally illiterate uncle declares. "That’s a good show. You should write for them."
I don’t have the heart to tell him that they don’t make that show anymore. So I nod my head enthusiastically, “Yeah, totally!”
But I can tell you with no trepidation that I am in fact an expert in the field of masturbation. I mean that in the purest sense. I mean expert as in, if there were a masturbation related homicide, I could give expert testimony in the court of law. I mean expert as in Malcolm Gladwell’s 10,000 Hour Rule expert. It’s not a paying gig but to friends and family, on the scale of professional achievement, it’s probably on par with writing.
"At least it’s physical," mom might say, "My son, the professional athlete."
When you consider it, the similarities between masturbation and writing are uncanny: 
Both generally happen in front of a laptop with countless windows open on your desktop.
In both cases you become detached from reality while constructing complex narratives.
Both are difficult to do at Starbucks.
In both cases, it’s generally annoying to have someone peering over your shoulder looking at your work before it’s done.
Both emotionally and physically exhausting.
Both take way longer if you’re drunk.
Both are wildly dissatisfying if not finished.
And most importantly:
Regardless of what your parents think, your friends think or the world thinks, you are going to do both until you are physically and mentally incapable of doing so any longer. Not because you’re stubborn and not because you are a fiend, but because your constitution will simply not permit you to stop. It’s in your DNA and it’s as natural as breathing.
Also,
both are impossible to do with an iPad.

Writing And Masturbation

By Bill Dixon

I wouldn’t dare call myself an expert in creative writing. Although it’s something I do daily, it feels pretentious to apply a hierarchical model to the creation of art. Words like “expert” or “professional” seem silly when applied to something as arbitrary as creativity.

This is the classic writer’s cop-out, deputized at Thanksgiving when you return home from whichever metropolis you have chosen to sublet a closet-sized bedroom. Family and friends ask you how the “writing thing” is going and you regurgitate the prepared statement you concocted at the airport while scanning the never-ending parade of black luggage as it spills onto the conveyor belt at baggage claim.

You’re a writer and you don’t write for The New York Times, The Daily Show, or Two and a Half Men, so you will need an excuse for not achieving the non-writing public’s apparent minimum requirement to be called a “real writer.”

"You know what show I like? That show Breaking Bad!", your functionally illiterate uncle declares. "That’s a good show. You should write for them."

I don’t have the heart to tell him that they don’t make that show anymore. So I nod my head enthusiastically, “Yeah, totally!”

But I can tell you with no trepidation that I am in fact an expert in the field of masturbation. I mean that in the purest sense. I mean expert as in, if there were a masturbation related homicide, I could give expert testimony in the court of law. I mean expert as in Malcolm Gladwell’s 10,000 Hour Rule expert. It’s not a paying gig but to friends and family, on the scale of professional achievement, it’s probably on par with writing.

"At least it’s physical," mom might say, "My son, the professional athlete."

When you consider it, the similarities between masturbation and writing are uncanny: 

  • Both generally happen in front of a laptop with countless windows open on your desktop.
  • In both cases you become detached from reality while constructing complex narratives.
  • Both are difficult to do at Starbucks.
  • In both cases, it’s generally annoying to have someone peering over your shoulder looking at your work before it’s done.
  • Both emotionally and physically exhausting.
  • Both take way longer if you’re drunk.
  • Both are wildly dissatisfying if not finished.

And most importantly:

  • Regardless of what your parents think, your friends think or the world thinks, you are going to do both until you are physically and mentally incapable of doing so any longer. Not because you’re stubborn and not because you are a fiend, but because your constitution will simply not permit you to stop. It’s in your DNA and it’s as natural as breathing.

Also,

  • both are impossible to do with an iPad.

Reblogged from imbilldixon

Happy Mother’s Day

My mother killed herself when I was a kid so I’d like to say happy Mother’s Day to the women who are not biological mother’s who step up and fill that space. There were wonderful women who materialized in my life after my mom died. Women that showed me how to tie my shoelaces. Women who showed me how to forgive. Those women showed me that the universe was not broken. They saved my life.