Here have a gifset of Patrick punching Pete.
it’s gotten to the point where i cant even call what im doing “procrastinating” anymore, i should just be calling it “jeopardizing my future”
no it’s totally fine!
before anyone comes into my ask box calling me fake i’ve seen taylor swift three times in concert because, generally, i enjoy her songs (though i am not impressed by her new album so far). okay anyway.
here are the positives: taylor pretty much self-manages. she’s incredibly smart, business savvy, and she pays attention to the fandom and industry trends around her. she makes money! and she’s really good at it!
what i don’t like is that she capitalizes on her fans’ ideals to create a hit song/record/whatever. for example, as of right now she’s really into feminism and being independent and celebrating womanhood which like, is great yk she probably is “learning” and “growing up” to some extent but if you look at what she’s actually DONE instead of just listening to her talk about it in interviews i really don’t see any progression in her behavior. so she calls out amy and tina for putting other women down right? great. but then why is she still making a song that focuses on her “feud” with katy perry???? what happened to her “not wanting to put other women down?” she wants to leave boys behind? awesome! but wait, why are there like five songs for haylor on the album? they “”“”“dated”“”“” for like three months, two years ago. like, it should have been /let go/.
she also has made it a point recently to say that calling her out for writing about exes is “sexist.” this i don’t understand either because, if im speaking in terms of the examples SHE USED, ed sheeran DID get a lot of flack for “don’t” (if i remember correctly, people compared him to taylor swift herself) and bruno mars is always pretty vague when it comes to his lyrics although I know he’s been referred to as misogynistic. so like?? taylor, please get better examples because i’m lost as to what point you’re making here.
ALSO i think it’s important to point out that it’s FINE(!!!) to talk about exes and past lovers in songs, like, that’s what most music is based off of. what’s NOT fine is when taylor whines about how people draw these connections in her music and subsequently call her out for being fake as hell when, if you listen to her songs, there are VERY SPECIFIC easter eggs (and clues in her ACTUAL lyric books) that are MOST DEFINITELY written in the songs so fans can speculate on her previous relationships. and yk like i get it!!! this is her thing, her schtick. she dates people for the papers and both parties get publicity; she gets a song out of it, her boyfriend of the season gets talked about for the next five years, and they both make money. that is all fine and dandy and i am a-okay with how the industry works. what i don’t like is how she just doesn’t own up to it. literally, i would like her so much more if she just said, “yes i write about all my relationships and I make it very obvious. my life is an open book and fans appreciate it.”
on that note i would also like her to personally thank harry for her “successful” image change. if you don’t think haylor wasn’t a completely calculated move in order to make her image more independent and “grown up” then i don’t know what to say to you. also out of the woods 100% uses her weird manipulative psychology methods to simultaneously make herself the victim (as per usual) while also making it seem like she’s taking the high road.
IN SUMMARY, taylor’s songs and experiences don’t come from a genuine place because she is not a genuine person. this is a game to make money and she’s winning.
all right everyone sit down, shut up and listen closely because I’m about to tell y’all the tale of Ms. Mormino.
Seventh grade is a time most people don’t look back on fondly. I know I sure don’t—I tend to regard that era as nothing more than an unpleasant, acne-filled haze of fall out boy and poor attempts at pseudo-zooey deschanel fashions. But enough about me. Let’s talk about my math teacher.
Ms. Isom. Poor old Ms. Isom. Well in her 60’s, always plagued with some illness or injury, she was hardly ever even at school. Since many of her absences were the result of short-notice incidents—“falling down the stairs” was popularly cited— it wasn’t all that uncommon to not have a substitute on hand. Being a smartass honors class, we’d gotten away with several successful evasions of administration, walking cavalierly into class to pass the next 48 minutes doing just about nothing. Hell, for good measure, we’d sometimes even toss in a friendly “hey, Ms. Isom!” if any administrators were anywhere within earshot. So incredibly anti-establishment, you could basically call it another Project Mayhem, except instead of Brad Pitt and Ed Norton concocting homemade bombs, it was a bunch of tweenyboppers with iPhone 3’s and Justin Bieber 2009 haircuts.
We got pretty accustomed to our own little self-governing system that rolled around every second period, so we naturally weren’t exactly thrilled when administration caught on to our little Anarchy Act and strictly enforced the presence of a substitute every day.
Most of our subs weren’t terrible—most were friendly, gave us participation grades, and didn’t object to the independent attitude of our class (which, mind you, only had about ten students in it)
That is, until Ms. Mormino came along.
Four feet, ten inches of raw, undiluted evil, Ms. Mormino walked into class with a scowl on her face and a chip on her shoulder. When the girl behind me sneezed, Ms. Mormino’s immediate response was “NO INAPPROPRIATE NOISES!”
Although we all suppressed our laughter, we all knew from that moment on that, try as she might with her despotism and her draconian anti-sneeze policy, Ms. Mormino didn’t stand a chance.
The arguable beginning of the end for Ms. Mormino’s all-too-brief reign of terror was the moment I asked for a calculator; mine was broken. Mormino asserted that I could only borrow a calculator if I loaned her something of mine; at that moment, the girl next to me chimed in, saying she, too, needed a calculator. “I have a folder I can give you,” I offered. “I have a highlighter,” added the other girl.
At that moment, a puberty-creaking voice from the back of the room piped up.
We all know certain people have certain gifts. Michelangelo saw angels in every block of marble and devoted his life to setting them free; Einstein had a mind which saw the potential of the entire universe; F. Scott Fitzgerald wove intricate tales of decadence and depravity. Max, however, had a different kind of gift: he could make anything—anything at all—into a “that’s what she said” joke. More on that later, though.
Max pried off a Nike sneaker and held it proudly in the air, like a coveted trophy.
"I have a shoe."
Tottering in one-shoe-one-sock, Max dumped the sneaker on Ms. Mormino’s desk, retrieved a calculator, then tottered back to his own desk, a sort of smirk playing on his face. And, as to be expected—the rest of us quickly followed suit.
A small pile of shoes on her desk, Ms. Mormino grit her teeth and glared at us as we all sat back down, quietly victorious, a calculator in each of our hands. It wasn’t long, however, until we all began to silently plot our next act of minor mayhem.
"Can I go to the bathroom?" asked Tyler, who, despite being in seventh grade, was approaching his sixteenth birthday. In a combination of verism and admiration of Tyler’s devil-may-care boldness, we unequivocally accepted him as our leader. For reasons unknown, Ms. Mormino denied his request. Tyler, much like his Fight Club namesake, heeded no rules but his own and left anyway—Ms. Mormino, furious, locked the door behind him and smugly insisted that "administration will take care of him."
Tyler, however, was not one to be caught, and stayed close by, appearing in the window of the door whenever Ms. Mormino wasn’t looking. Waving, smiling, laughing, making faces and obscene gestures, Tyler had us all in stitches, but cleverly avoided Ms. Mormino’s sight—when she asked us what was so funny, we all refused to give Tyler away.
A girl asked to go to the bathroom, stating she “really really really” needed to go. Ms. Mormino, again, denied her request. Ms. Mormino, however, seemed to be uninformed about the side door—leading right outside, always locked from the outside but always open from the inside.
"Well, I’ll go myself," the girl responded, and took off, hurdling three desks and darting out the door. Right behind her, two other students took off, pursuing freedom. The door slammed behind all three students, and they were gone.
Six of us were left. Among us, importantly, was Chris.
Chris was thirteen, but looked half his age; scrawny, wiry, he probably measured in at about four-foot-three, but no taller. “Late Bloomer” are words that come to mind.
Despite his diminutive size, Chris possessed the gall of someone like Tyler.
"I have to use the bathroom," said Chris, standing.
”Do you think I’m going to allow you to go to the bathroom?” snapped Ms. Mormino.
”It’s an emergency!” Chris pleaded.
"Sit down," Ms. Mormino growled.
Meanwhile, the entire class borders on hysteria. We have tears in our eyes, almost suffocating from choking back laughter.
"It’s an emergency," repeated Chris, but it sounded more like a warning.
Silence. Silence, Silence and more silence, until we all began to notice a dark stain on Chris’s khakis. The stain grew. And grew. And grew.
Fists at his sides, stoicism in his face, and a cold, proud, triumphant glint in his eye, Chris locked eye contact with Ms. Mormino.
And pissed right in his pants.
The entire class erupted into a laugh only comparable to the detonation of a bomb.
We laughed so hard for the next five, ten, fifteen minutes straight that Ms. Mormino gave up. Surrendering, putting her head on her desk, she waited until the hysteria finally subsided.
Finally looking up, defeated, pathetic, Ms. Mormino glared at us all and wailed:
”This is too much, this is too hard, too hard, Jesus Christ, this is too much for me!”
A lone voice sounded from the back of the room. Guess whose it was.
"That’s what she said."
Ms. Mormino officially retired from teaching that afternoon.
FUCKING READ IT IT’S WORTH IT
Mitt Romney spent over 800 Million not to become president. I spent no money for the same result. Who’s the better businessman?