Etretat, France (by falkussler)


In high school, some friends and I had a crush on this one boy. Or. We thought he was cute, I guess, and funny, and smart. And he had really nice calves. We thought this was the funniest, weirdest thing to appreciate about someone: the shape of his calves. What even was that? We giggled about it all the time, and walked up stairs behind him, watching those muscles flex. It didn’t occur to me until really very recently that you just can’t see a man’s thighs in the kind of shorts boys were wearing, then, and are mostly wearing now. All we meant was a completely ordinary, adolescent thing, the kind of thing boys were only supposed to say to us girls, that we somehow didn’t have the language for ourselves. What we meant was: he had really nice legs. 


This thing happens, inevitably, at some point when I’m in bed with someone. I mean, lying around, post-coital. He will catalogue for me the parts of my body he likes best. He’s been taught how to appreciate a woman for each of her features in turn, to think long and hard about which ones he likes, and then to offer them up to her, as a compliment. I’m not complaining; I’m not asking them to complain. I’m just saying, you know, I never know what to say in return. No one ever taught me how to tell a man: I like your shoulders, your waist, your belly, your mouth.


One of my favorite parts about writing this book was writing about the main character, a teenage girl, getting up close to a boy’s body for the first time. It felt impossibly illicit to catalogue the mundane things I’ve spent years developing a vocabulary for, all the tender parts of men’s bodies I’ve learned to recognize and appreciate. They’re so funny, and always covered in ridiculous clothes— until you get them into bed, and then they take off those clothes, and lie there in the dark with you, and tell you about how they like to look at you. Once that’s out of the way they tell you other things, too, there in the dark, where no one is looking at anyone, and you can forget for a minute that you’re supposed to be responsible to your body, or your idea of your self. 


I recently read a couple of books in a row— one by a woman, one by a man— that spent pages on male narrators describing the lush bodies of teenage girls. God it was exhausting. Claustrophobic. It made my skin feel tight, like: the shape of me will always be fruit, either ripe or spoiled. Like the inside of a girl’s head was empty or impenetrable, and either way besides the point.


Why read YA? People have been asking, and I could give a fuck, honestly. Read whatever it is you want to read. So why write YA, I ask myself. Because I could write other things. But I want to offer at least one teenage girl a vocabulary for her desires, or the idea that there is one. There’s not what’s inside her head and the shape of her body, one irrevocably private, the other unavoidably public. When you grow up learning about sex from the media, you imagine it’s all about looking; when you grow up a (straight) girl, you imagine that it’s all about how men want or don’t want to look at you.

It’s so surprising, when it happens, and it turns out it’s about touch, and reaction, and relationship. Reaching into a space between yourself and someone else, and saying: here. But you have to figure out where you are, first, and that inside of you is a place, too. If you don’t have words for it yet, that’s not because it’s unspeakable. That’s what I learned, when I finally started giving things names: that my desire was unmapped, but not so unfamiliar after all. It looked like everyone else’s, actually, lumpy, particular, personal, fine. I wanted and wanted and wanted. Just like everyone else. And, more than that: I allowed to say so.

Happy 27th Birthday, Tyler Hoechlin! (September 11, 1987)

The Facial Hair Crisis of 2014: a Classification


Stage #1, or “fill me up Buttercup”— please note qualification for this stage requires either a) a cleanly shaven look or b) the faintest hint of stubble:


Stage #2a, or “we might have an opening for you down south but mostly because your eyes look unbelievably pretty (see also x and x) and I keep getting distracted by your hands and the angle obscures your neck beard”:


Stage #2b, or “okay FINE”:


Stage #3, or “you look like you subsist on weed and beer and haven’t showered in three weeks but I’d probably still suck your dick if you asked nicely”:


Stage #4, or “patchy upper lip fur is reaching worrying levels of pornstache; neck beard is strongly reminiscent of pubic hair; abort mission, I repeat, abort mission”:



Tim Burton Inspired Pokemon Drawing by Vaughn Pinpin (More Images)




life partner material


Nation’s Huggers Announce Plans For You To Get Over Here


Thank you so much, John Oliver.



my name is luna enriquez

Dear Lunchbag

this needs to always be on my dashboard




World’s languages traced back to single African mother tongue: scientists.

New Zealand researchers have traced every human language — from English to Mandarin — back to an ancestral language spoken in Africa 50,000 to 70,000 years ago.

Scientists say they have traced the world’s 6,000 modern languages — from English to Mandarin — back to a single “mother tongue,” an ancestral language spoken in Africa 50,000 to 70,000 years ago.

New research, published in the journal Science, suggests this single ancient language resulted in human civilization — a Diaspora — as well as advances in art and hunting tool technology, and laid the groundwork for all the world’s cultures.

The research, by Quentin Atkinson from the University of Auckland in New Zealand, also found that speech evolved far earlier than previously thought. And the findings implied, though did not prove, that modern language originated only once, an issue of controversy among linguists, according to the New York Times.

Before Atkinson came up with the evidence for a single African origin of language, some scientists had argued that language evolved independently in different parts of the world.

Atkinson found that the first populations migrating from Africa laid the groundwork for all the world’s cultures by taking their single language with them. “It was the catalyst that spurred the human expansion that we all are a product of,” Atkinson said, the Wall Street Journal reported.

Atkinson traced the number distinct sounds, or phonemes — consonants, vowels and tones — in 504 world languages, finding compelling evidence that they can be traced back to a long-forgotten dialect spoken by our Stone Age ancestors, according to the Daily Mail.

Atkinson also hypothesized that languages with the most sounds would be the oldest, while those spoken by smaller breakaway groups would utilize fewer sounds as variation and complexity diminished.

The study found that some of the click-using languages of Africa have more than 100 phonemes, or sounds, whereas Hawaiian, toward the far end of the human migration route out of Africa, has only 13, the Times reported. English has about 45 phonemes.

The phoneme pattern mirrors the pattern of human genetic diversity as humans spread across the globe from sub-Saharan Africa around 70,000 years ago.


This gives me LIFE from people who insist all languages (ALL no matter what) derive from latin bases.

Reblogging this for three reasons:

1) It’s awesome and worth knowing

2) It makes sense when you think about, you know, the whole history of human development (from a NOT white supremacist perspective at least)

3) To add that if anyone ever tries to say that all languages are derived from Latin [insert choked sound of disbelief and anger] you can inform their ignorant (probably racist) asses of this: Latin, as far as languages go, is an INFANT. It’s part of a subset of Indo-European languages and MOTHERFUCKER EVEN ENGLISH ISN’T ONE OF ITS DERIVATIVES. (French, Spanish, Italian, Romanian, and Portuguese are, as well as lots of their related languages and dialects, that’s it.) Latin isn’t even remotely old enough to be a mother language. It’s like saying alpacas were the original dinosaurs or some bullshit.