Creation Myth: A Child Tries to Make Sense of Her Disability

This is the story you’ve been told: you walked at nine months, ran at ten, and by eleven were doing somersaults upon somersaults until you collapsed red-faced from the motion, but most of all from the giggling.

By thirteen months, you had stopped all of this.

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Paintings of the Temptation of Saint Anthony That Fundamentally Misunderstand The Concept Of Temptation

Just to get this out of the way, I am aware that the general vibe of most paintings of the Temptation of St. Anthony is like, DECADENT HORROR to denote the ultimate BAD END of temptations; all the horned pig-ferrets are more like a representation of “the wages of sin is DEATH” than like, an actual medieval desire to hang out with pig-ferrets. THAT SAID, literally everyone who has ever painted the Temptation of St. Anthony has actually no idea what temptation looks like.

Let us begin.

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On #YesAllWomen, One Year Later

On the night of May 25, 2014, I curled up in bed and waited to die.

My Twitter mentions were bursting with reasons why I should. I was a man-hater. I was a rabid feminist. I was capitalizing on a tragedy. I was a terrorist in sheep’s clothing. I was a hypocrite. There were many that had creatively utilized a 140-character limit to fantasize about particularly creative ends for me.

What I’d asked for.

What I deserved to have done to me.

What they wanted to do to me.

I was a Muslim woman who had dared to start a viral hashtag that laid out the fears women faced – while men shamed and accused them of generalizing against an entire gender for the sins of a perceived few.

I was the creator of #YesAllWomen, and in that moment, I had no idea what the morning would bring me.

And I wasn’t sure if I wanted to wake up and see.

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Loco Parentis: Today, and Every Day After

Aubrey Hirsch’s previous Loco Parentis columns for The Butter can be found here.

The toughest emotional moments of motherhood for me are always the “firsts.”

My son had an ear infection when he was two weeks old and it was the first time I couldn’t calm him down by bringing him to my breast. I remember thinking, this is the first time he’s coming to me for comfort and I’m not fixing the problem. This is the first time I’m letting him down.

That thought stung, and stung badly. He couldn’t know how hard I was trying to make him feel better. He couldn’t know that I had nothing to do with the pain in his ear. He couldn’t know that it wasn’t my fault. All he knew is that he was in pain and that I wasn’t making it better.

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The “Inside SoCal” Series Is Transcendently Good And Kyle Mooney Is Possibly A Genius

So, yes, obviously, it is a little ridiculous to call someone who is already a featured player on SNL by the age of 30 underappreciated. I acknowledge that. But it genuinely concerns me that people might not understand the work of Kyle Mooney.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BluTtvG32Iw

“Sure, that’s funny, he’s funny. I laughed. It’s funny.” NO. Do not damn him with faint praise. Speak only when you know what you are about to say or shut your mouth entirely. It’s exquisitely tuned; it is a symphony written on a grain of rice, and I wish to helling Christ I could find a better way to describe what’s so unique about Inside SoCal and the Chris Kirkpatrick videos.

What I want to do is say that he interrogates a certain type of white maleness that is normally ignored as the default, but without saying “interrogates,” “default,” or “white maleness,” both because academic speak is deeply unlovely and also because this barely begins to describe what it is that he does.

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This Writer’s On Fire: xTx

“A mixture of Mary Gaitskill and Kelly Link, she isn’t afraid to write about sex, violence, loss, or desire—no matter how dark it gets, or how real it feels.” —Richard Thomas at The Rumpus.

“She digs deep for those, into places that make her and the reader feel like monsters. She almost named the book I Am Not a Monster in part because she often feels like one. And that is it right there — we all do. Maybe we do not write stories about it. Maybe we pretend we do not have these feelings. But we do.” –Robb Todd on xTx’s book Normally Special at The Lit Pub.

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Edith Wharton Reviews the Starbucks Located at Her Childhood Home on West 23rd Street

One cannot expect the new owners of one’s home to maintain indefinitely the sound principles of design and the wholesomeness of purpose with which one has invested it. Nor can one account for what Symonds has called, rather charitably I should think, “the vicissitudes of taste.” Bearing this firmly in mind, it would be dishonest to suggest that I was not disheartened to learn my former home at Fourteen West Twenty-Third Street is now a Starbucks coffee shop. Yes, the private residence where my first matelassé bonnet was tied beneath my cheerful chin and where, mere months after I had just begun to plod across our fine old Eastern rugs, I cracked open a previously unread volume of Honoré d’Urfé, marquis de Valromey, comte de Châteauneuf bound in a tasteful green morocco, is now in use as a local branch of Mr. Howard Schultz’s thriving tea-and-coffee empire.

Nevertheless, I am no stranger to fine beverages. I’ve never turned away an afternoon lapsang souchong with a sliver of lemon. (I have, of course, said “no thank you” to a lapsang souchong served with milk!) From time to time I enjoy a strong Turkish coffee in a filigree cup, especially when mixed with the tonic of good conversation among friends.

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