lisasnaps

[lisasnaps]

I reblog a thing I did, therefore I am

We’re never truly landlocked

The projectile vomit just sprang into being. I don’t remember a transitional state or any inkling that it would happen like that—just the timeless, world-ending nausea of “before” and then the “oh my God.” This was how I learned that I had become susceptible to sea sickness.

Previous family deep-sea fishing trips had been one of everyone’s favorite vacation activities, but this was the day that the ocean and I rejected each other. We’d been so far from land for so long that I had no way of even guessing which way the shore was. A constant misty drizzle made the difference between the air and water feel as fuzzy a distinction as the grey-on-grey horizon. The boat rocked on the unease of a thousand generations’ collective memory of storms and ghost ships.

I was born 475 miles from Rugby, North Dakota: the geographical center of North America. By contrast, the nearest ocean is something like 1,200 miles away. Most of my dad’s forebears immigrated to the United States in the 1880s; all of them farmers, and all so clearly taken with the journey across the Atlantic that the number who have done so again is exactly zero. Their oceans, and mine, are the rolling horizons of grain and pasture. Solid, immobile land that is plowed, sown, tended, and harvested; harsh and changing in this climate, but still a steady, workable base.

In reality, this steady, workable base, and everything that’s ever transpired on it, are a gasp of ephemera between the two halves of the abyss: space and sea.

Both are gaping maws of swift death, completely enveloping the entirety of human existence, held at bay only by the kindness of physics. Space, and its sobering embodiment of the infinite, tend to overpower the sea in modern imagination. But the facts remain that the seas cover 70% of the Earth and that, while 12 men have walked on the surface of the moon during six trips there, only three men have been to the deepest part of the ocean; two in one mission in 1960, and one in 2012. This almost untouchable place is the Challenger Deep, a depression at the bottom of the Marianas Trench, 35,700 feet deep: almost a mile deeper than Mount Everest is high. There is no light, no heat, and 16,000 pounds per square inch of pressure. To call it unforgiving is arrogant in the assumption that it could ever conceive of such a fragile existence as ours.

I do remember making some effort to keep myself from being thrown off of the boat. I was at least aware that I should probably not fall off of the boat. But my body was no longer my own. It was instead piloted by the heaving that pulsed through every vein and ended somewhere far beyond me, drawn away by powerful currents. I wasn’t so much “on” the boat anymore as I was suspended over the side by a practiced fisherman’s grip on the back of my pants. I had no sense of space and no will to live: I was just a sack of meat and bones that had gone completely haywire and was trying to expel all of its meat.

The only lucid thought I remember was not an appreciation of how close I was to being consumed by Davy Jones’s Locker—but how expansive a giant arc of puke was, flying away from me in slow motion. How unlikely it seemed that my adolescent body could produce such a tremendous rainbow of horror.

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NEW THOR IS SO THOR! MOAR THOAR!!!

but seriously, it's so good.

FIGHT HARDER before I faint from BOREDOM!

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This is a super important thing to learn for your own well being and one of the worst things for any level of society to learn collectively.

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I would like someone to invent one of those breathalyzers that keeps you from driving drunk, but for the internet and texting. Hurry up.

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the year is 2025

scientists are still scrambling to figure out what “zigazig ahh” is so that they can give the spice girls what they really really want

the spice girls are getting impatient

war is upon us

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Valentino’s Pre-Fall 2015 collection—elegant, space-inspired clothes designed by Maria Grazia Chiuri and Pierpaolo Piccioli.

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Is it tits? Make it its own comic. What's it about? Don't care. Can there be more tits?

Is it even mildly suggestive of the D? KEEP IT AWAY NO HOMO.

I'm more and more excited about my new job, going to SDCC and potentially getting to meet people in this industry because I will say some shit.

I will say some shit on behalf of all of the women who were just robbed of a pinup Bucky Barnes for no good reason. Bucky makes us boing, you bastards. I have so much liberal arts SAT vocab to drop on you and you could have prevented it by just giving us the D.

This world can do a lot of things to me. But it can not offer and pull back some Bare Bucky without a fight. My comic shop is one of the ten largest in the country and good lord am I sick of the Marvel and DC Mad Men attitude. Can't wait to meet you in July, assholes.

Sincerely, Someone you should offend less when I have a slew of Boom, Image, Valiant and Indie books to hand my customers instead

So. as a few of you out there figured out, kevinwada and myself were working on a Marvel Swimsuit book.

I write to you today with the somber news that after a few months back and forth with the powers-that-be, circumstances have arisen that have forced us to stop production on this project. 

Kevin and I are currently looking into some way to salvage some of the pieces to do something with, but in the mean time, we thought we’d treat you all to the pieces we had finished so far.

While we are both disappointed that we can no longer work on this, there was no malice behind this decision. It is what it is. Although on the plus side, this now free’s Kevin and I up to some new things potentially this year, so who knows.

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I wanted to hit it so bad in 1998.

I still wanna hit it.

Double tap: Duchovny.

Chris Hardwick: Let’s tag The Dukes.

Gillian Anderson: What’s “The Dukes”?

CH: David Duchovny- that’s what I just started calling him right now.

GA: That’s actually really clever. 

CH: You can start calling him that, you can have that, Gillian. You can call him that.

GA: Thanks. I call him “Double D”.

CH: He can have a lot of nicknames.

GA: He does. “Speedo”.

Nerdist Podcast, January 2015

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A woman is not written in braille, you don’t have to touch her to know her.

Jonaida Estrada González (via etherealvistas)

WHOA.