"I don’t like kanye west he’s a dick. have you ever listened to Eminem?"
My puthy is dry
How strange it is. We have these deep terrible lingering fears about ourselves and the people we love. Yet we walk around, talk to people, eat and drink. We manage to function. The feelings are deep and real. Shouldn’t they paralyze us? How is it we can survive them, at least for a little while? We drive a car, we teach a class. How is it no one sees how deeply afraid we were, last night, this morning? Is it something we all hide from each other, by mutual consent? Or do we share the same secret without knowing it? Wear the same disguise?
If we open a letter written by a young woman and read, “Often too he shared my pillow - or I his, and how sweet to sleep with him, to hold his beloved form in my embrace, to have his arms about my neck, to imprint upon his face sweet kisses,” we can reasonably assume that she and the man in question shared a sexual relationship. There is no justifiable grounds for changing that assumption when we learn that the words were actually written by Albert Dodd, a Yale undergraduate in the 1830s, describing his relationship with a fellow student, Anthony Hall. There is no valid reason to assert that passionate language in a letter between a man and a woman implies a sexual attraction, while exactly the same language exchanged between two men is “just the way male friends wrote about one another back then.” Yet this type of willful disbelief in the prevalence of historical homosexuality, and refusal to accept passionate male-male discourse as anything other than a literary convention, is all too common.
kurt cobain: united states first troll?