Usually I celebrate personal discovery and revelation, as I believe we could all do with taking a hard look at our lives. Any experience that inspires gratitude and release, or allows the subject to gain a new appreciation for the vast and unpredictable texture of human existence is worthwhile, but consider this: if I see another naked penis on our streets I will take a life with my bare hands.
“Here he is girls,” you say, and whisk off the top of a large silver chafing dish, the kind you might see at a hotel’s continental breakfast. There he is, that man, the one with the trapezoid body. You know the one. Arranged amongst some seasonal greens.
I am glad Superman’s dad is dead, and I hope he’s in hell. His bullshit “stay in your lane-son, life is hardship and we all deserve judgement” advice made me pity the most powerful man on earth. He is the worst part of Zach Snyder’s Superman.
BAP were first marketed as blondes from space, which sounds pretty kitschy and Barbarella-y until you remember they debuted in the late 00’s, a particularly dark time for both fashion and new ideas. In K-pop, this meant a lot of palm-frond hair styling and Hot Topic carpenter pants, or a particular cut of white jean. I think their teaser trailer involved a flying saucer and a smoke machine that was working overtime; like many memories from my last year of university that do not involve busting my dominant hand or my thesis, it is hazy at best.
Zayn released a bootycall anthem last month, managing to get on my fucking nerves in a way that means I would have to call him back, and then we’d probably end up having regrettable ex-sex. He’d still have a really nice comforter and espresso machine, the dick. This song is every clove-smoking tattooed motherfucker who likes Teagan and Sara and has a low-key coke addiction that you STILL want to bang. This is the “you up?” text, the “read your poem. Loved it. Thought of u” message that you have to whiteknuckle through because it shouldn’t work, it’s so flimsy, but the seed has been successfully planted and your subconscious is already gleefully ripping its shirt off.
There were so many good things I discovered when I first went camping. I loved smelling like a campfire all the time. Letting the grease accumulate in my hair was a new sensation, and I felt so pleased with myself at being able to style it much more effectively than before. Most vivid in my mind was realizing the unrestrained ability to urinate wherever I like.
The first boat was a brutal, exhausting experience. From the time I set foot off the bus into Batangas Port, the pace felt too chaotic, too ad-lib. I was greeted by the usual chorus of ticket hockers, selling me seats on boats that didn’t exist, or manufacturing an emergency.
On July 18th, the GOP will have to choose once and for all whether they will wholly and publicly embrace Donald Trump. Before this Category 5 political shitstorm hits Cleveland, virtually every non-Trump-loving American will have asked this question: “Why is Donald Trump so popular?”