When textbooks are not creative enough....
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"I'm in my late 20s and I'm scared I've already peaked" just don't peak then, idiot. what do you mean like you're going to just stop trying to think harder and build taller and learn more and get luckier and read deeper and dress better and fuck weirder and run faster and draw crazier and smoke danker and dance bigger and steal better and stun everyone with your cunty charm and zeal because, what, you think those are the rules? get real. get up. you have another 50 years and you're not going to use them??? give them to me.
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"One of the coolest examples of creative living that I’ve seen in recent years, for instance, came from my friend Susan, who took up figure skating when she was forty years old. To be more precise, she actually already knew how to skate. She had competed in figure skating as a child and had always loved it, but she’d quit the sport during adolescence when it became clear she didn’t have quite enough talent to be a champion. (Ah, lovely adolescence—when the “talented” are officially shunted off from the herd, thus putting the total burden of society’s creative dreams on the thin shoulders of a few select souls, while condemning everyone else to live a more commonplace, inspiration-free existence! What a system . . . )
For the next quarter of a century, my friend Susan did not skate. Why bother, if you can’t be the best? Then she turned forty. She was listless. She was restless. She felt drab and heavy. She did a little soul-searching, the way one does on the big birthdays. She asked herself when was the last time she’d felt truly light, joyous, and—yes—creative in her own skin. To her shock, she realized that it had been decades since she’d felt that way. In fact, the last time she’d experienced such feelings had been as a teenager, back when she was still figure skating. She was appalled to discover that she had denied herself this life-affirming pursuit for so long, and she was curious to see if she still loved it.
So she followed her curiosity. She bought a pair of skates, found a rink, hired a coach. She ignored the voice within her that told her she was being self-indulgent and preposterous to do this crazy thing. She tamped down her feelings of extreme self-consciousness at being the only middle-aged woman on the ice, with all those tiny, feathery nine-year-old girls.
She just did it.
Three mornings a week, Susan awoke before dawn and, in that groggy hour before her demanding day job began, she skated. And she skated and skated and skated. And yes, she loved it, as much as ever. She loved it even more than ever, perhaps, because now, as an adult, she finally had the perspective to appreciate the value of her own joy. Skating made her feel alive and ageless. She stopped feeling like she was nothing more than a consumer, nothing more than the sum of her daily obligations and duties. She was making something of herself, making something with herself.
It was a revolution. A literal revolution, as she spun to life again on the ice—revolution upon revolution upon revolution . . .
Please note that my friend did not quit her job, did not sell her home, did not sever all her relationships and move to Toronto to study seventy hours a week with an exacting Olympic-level skating coach. And no, this story does not end with her winning any championship medals. It doesn’t have to. In fact, this story does not end at all, because Susan is still figure skating several mornings a week—simply because skating is still the best way for her to unfold a certain beauty and transcendence within her life that she cannot seem to access in any other manner. And she would like to spend as much time as possible in such a state of transcendence while she is still here on earth."
From : BIG MAGIC - creative living beyond fear. By Elizabeth Gilbert.
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being sick & miserable objectively sucks, but it has become significantly easier to cope with since learning that “sickness behavior” is a well documented part of the body’s immune response

feeling not only physically but also emotionally like fucking garbage is unfortunately an extremely effective way to force your body to prioritize fighting infection & keeping you alive. i don’t have to like it, but knowing why i get weepy & pathetic when sick does help at least a little
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Coworkers that say that they understand workplace standards but claim that your tone is the problem when you actually try to hold them accountable (for the fifth time).

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"exercise will give you more energy" gets said a lot as a common piece of health advice but I think it needs to be expanded into "exercising will make you tired while you do it, and you will continue to be tired immediately afterwards, sometimes even the next day too, but over months of consistent exercise, your muscles will get stronger and therefore get less tired out by everyday activities, making you feel like day-to-day life takes less physical energy than it used to"
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Ouran high school was my favourite anime when I was like 14 which is really funny because thats also the age I basically was in a Haruhi fujioka situation. Not like fully literally but the meat of it was the same
I was the one single middle-class kid in a super high-end rich kid private academy with like pressed uniforms and building wings and everything. I didnt get any sort of scholarship, my dad just got a job as a teacher there and teachers kids got to enroll for free because the tuition was like 30 grand a year and you arent affording that on a teacher salary. So I understand her on a very visceral level and perhaps enjoyed OHSHC so much because she was SOOO me fr. These damn rich people
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I made a bat comic and now you have to look at it
Edit: Apparently it's "not bad" so I changed the phrasing. Um hello thousands of people. You, uh, you really don't need to follow me over this one, uhh, it's not representative of my normal posting habits.
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I haven't seen this version anywhere so I made one!
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have you lot heard about the tiktoker who’s taking on the actual government over a parking ticket? because she’s a hero
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i hate it when i cant even write a poem about something because its too obvious. like in the airbnb i was at i guess it used to be a kids room cause you could see the imprint of one little glow in the dark star that had been missed and painted over in landlord white. like that's a poem already what's the point
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