They ask me to balance out the screaming with a minute of silence. They tell me I am a cold, heartless psychopath when I refuse.
The horror of this world is a broken seal on their fresh bottle of coke, bubbling and bubbling until the earth is flat once more.
They lost their lives in songs and lights;
They lost their lives for no reason;
They were white. We mourn them.
There were twenty-two.
That could be a lot.
I mean, as long as you totally ignore the rest of us, that’s a lot. That’s a tragedy. it is as if the seven of the Challenger had crashed into the Titanic, rather than the Titanic crashing into the iceberg. I can not be silent about this.
Here’s the simple arithmetic:
Challenger : Titanic
7 : 1,503
Here’s a distinction, somewhat clearer:
Syria : Manchester
55,000 : 22
This simple ratio…
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Had I the words to speak,
I would never stop telling you.
Had I the words that breathe,
I would never stop enlivening you.
If my words were fire,
I would set your heart ablaze.
If these words were heroin,
I would shoot you up and you’d be happy for days.
If these words weren’t empty,
I would have them fill you.
If these words had a direction,
Then they would be true.
So, in honour of Charlotte Bronte’s unbirthday (shut up, they’re totally a thing and it’s not just an excuse to better understand Jane Eyre), we’re having a look at the conventions of the Victorian Gothic this week. But before we can look specifically at the Victorian Gothic genre, let’s get some things straight about the Gothic genre in general (we’ll look at this in greater detail in a later article, but for now this is what you need to know) :
The goths love death, decay, and madness. Especially when it happens to rich people. Who doesn’t love seeing a wealthy aristocrat gradually lose everything they own, including their mind? Not to mention, a common trope is the belief and the fear that ancestral sins will come back to bite their descendants- let’s face it, the farther back and higher up you go, the bigger bastards the people are. (*cough*…
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Look in thy mug and tell the face thou viewest Now is the time one exam should form fast repent, Whose fresh questions shit-storm with each passing crest But coffee doth beguile the world, bless’d be; heaven-sent. For where is tea so fair whose sub-caffinated depth Disdains the brains of poor pupils wracked with sleep-loss? […]
The easy days try to outweigh the hard days. But some days they just can’t.
These are the days when you want to drop everything and walk home early, thinking deeply about whatever is troubling you and perhaps for some solution, or to wallow in a lack of solutions.
These are the days when all you need to fix it would be a nice warm coffee, but the moment it touches your lips you receive a high degree of burn damage, dropping the coffee all over yourself in shock and staining your favourite white work blouse with ungainly streaks of brown. Oh, and that burning all over your torso. That is also quite inconvenient.
You have to drive yourself to the hospital because you live alone and no-one loves you (sorry) and wait in the waiting room for several hours rubbing toothpaste into your belly to soothe the pain. When the doctor does finally call you in you are told that your case is not covered by your medical insurance, and so she turns you away, still indignantly rubbing toothpaste over yourself and desperately wishing you still had feeling in your tongue.
By the time you get home your headache has intensified and you delicately test what is left of the coffee you had hastily abandoned. It’s gone cold and bitter because you find yourself simultaneously out of milk and sugar.
Briefly wondering how this day could possibly get any worse, you walk in to the kitchen and see that your cat has had a nasty case of diarrhea, as well as profuse vomiting over your grandmother’s favourite pillowcase, knitted by your great-great grandmother during the great war that your grand-uncle died in. Grimacing, you look around for the poop-scoop but to no avail. Gagging in distaste, you use a dangerously small piece of plastic clingfilm to throw the pillow into the washing machine, and the cat shit into the bin, which is mostly full. You try not to notice how horrifically warm all of these things are, and fail miserably.
Sighing, you plop yourself in front of the television- yes, the new episode of Sherlock shall cheer you up, if nothing else can!
They announce an emergency haitus, this one lasting for up to 12 years. About ten minutes later, you despondently switch to the news- a big mistake. Benedict Cumberbatch has been involved in a terrible accident, and has not only been horrifically disfigured, but has woken up in the hospital not realising what on earth he is- he believes himself to be an owl, but one cannot believe a word he hoots.
You cry out in anguish as it is reported that Martin Freeman was in the same car, and he thinks he is a duck now. The scene changes to an exchange between the two avian actors- Benedict hooting indignantly as Martin Quacks a question at an interviewer.
When an advert for a couple in up-town Liverpool who have found themselves in negative equity comes on, you switch off the television and fall asleep. After all, today couldn’t possibly get much worse by sleeping, could it?
When forty exams shall besiege me now, And dig deep trenches in my youth’s field, My mind’s proud addiction will harken now, Coffee will save my grades, my mind will yield! Then being asked questions I know not, My mind shall know all this treasure and more, And I may yet pass and show how […]