A Washington Post investigation found that 60 children have died in Virginia day cares since 2004.
|—||The Flamethrowers, Rachel Kushner (via moresongsaboutbuildings)|
- Father of two walks on the moon
- FATHER OF TWO DEFEATS FATHER OF ONE
- Father of two kills Kennedy
- Father of three writes Hamlet
- Some guy who doesn’t even have any kids crucified or something.
Telegraph, the only time a headline should start with “Mother of three” is if those three are flying on their gigantic wings to melt The Wall and destroy Westeros.
I wanted to be like omg I love Rob Lowe but then I was like omg I love Chris Pratt but OMG I LOVE NICK OFFERMAN how do I CHOOSE
Le foyer de la danse à l’Opéra de la rue Le Peletier (Ballet studio at the Opera in rue Le Peletier), 1872
Oil on canvas
This is how I’d like to perform more of my work: with a sandwich in hand.
Bonus of mostly working from home: this is how I perform my work. See also: melty pints of ice cream.
I was twelve when I met Harry Potter, just young enough to believe my owl from Hogwarts was flying slightly behind schedule. Without him, I would not be a reader; I would not be a writer. No story has ever affected me as much as Harry’s. His was the first that made me feel as if two doors had opened inside my head—one leading to the outside world, huge and new and endlessly interesting; the other leading inward to myself, memories and emotions I had yet to understand. I’ve loved other books, but only with Harry Potter have I had the curious, enveloping feeling that the book somehow loves me back.
I got to talk to talk about my Harry Potter feels as part of the celebratory blog tour surrounding Bloomsbury UK’s release of the stunning new covers. In exchange, Bloomsbury UK tweeted the picture above. Man. If you’d told 12-year-old me that one day Harry Potter’s publisher would be tweeting pictures of a book I’d written next to my favorite books of that or any time, I’d be like, “Wait, what? What’s Twitter?”
|—||Jonathan Tropper; This is Where I Leave You (via wordpainting)|
“So long as you write what you wish to write, that is all that matters; and whether it matters for ages or only for hours, nobody can say.”
― Virginia Woolf, A Room of One’s Own