We are all tempted to be shiny. There are so many shiny women out there. We are taught—and eventually we believe, in our hearts—that shininess is the surest route to love. But aiming for shiny is like living in the dark. “Though he gave me no sign that he was unhappy with our relationship,” you wrote, “I’d somehow missed the mark.” Though he told you nothing, YOU somehow fucked up. Though he was just a mirage, YOU were the sad rejected woman who didn’t please him enough. When you aim for shiny, you become nothing but a reflective surface. At your very best, at your peak shininess, he will only see his own reflection in you.
I put that word on the page,
but he added the apostrophe.
God damn God damn God daymn.
Penny Dreadful (2014)
I. love. the. Anaconda. video. but the writeups I’ve been seeing keep referring to Drake as a co-star, which I think misses a big part of the point.
The reason this video rules is because Drake is an extra. Drake is a prop. Drake is a bro in the comfy-casual clothes that he rolled up to the set in, who has no lines or purpose other than the be ground upon, and whose face is obscured by shadows most of the time.
This is not a continuation of the Drake/Nicki/Rih media narrative. This is a dank-as-fuck feminist power play. This is, “Drake is whatever to me.” And this is a man who, if he isn’t at the top of his game, is close to it. A huge celebrity. And here is Nicki looking fucking amazing, tormenting him into a boner, then swatting his hand away and walking out of frame.
Your anaconda don’t want none unless she got buns, hun? Maybe she doesn’t want your anaconda. Maybe she’ll do whatever the fuck she wants with her buns, and it doesn’t matter what you think or feel.
On Friday, we left work early and drove three hours to the sea. The people we told were puzzled by the distance. “Why there?” they said, “and why now?” Mid to late August, especially in the north of England, brings electric storms and soggy sandals; in late August you find the weather for mud and puddles, not for sandcastles and sea.
Stuck in traffic somewhere on the A1, nearing the late of a Friday night, we might still have been proved wrong. But as the sun set over the last of the golden arches of the motorway, we reached the top of a hill that looked down on the bay.
We saw the sea.