I want you to notice.

That's just how it is, here on the internet

(Source: monstergagaholic, via padnick)

heyelaine:

Oh Prince, how could they just leave you standing alone in a world that’s so cold? 

C’est ce que cela ressemble quand les colombes pleurent.

heyelaine:

Oh Prince, how could they just leave you standing alone in a world that’s so cold? 

C’est ce que cela ressemble quand les colombes pleurent.

(Source: internet)

(Source: bmwlord, via lauraolin)

nprfreshair:

Spring Equinox in Chicago by nixerkg 

nprfreshair:

Spring Equinox in Chicago by nixerkg 

humansofnewyork:

Dad let go of her hand, but she never let go of dad’s hand.

STYLE. ICON.

humansofnewyork:

Dad let go of her hand, but she never let go of dad’s hand.

STYLE. ICON.

powells:

Happy Spring!

powells:

Happy Spring!

Twitter wasn’t all that negative today.

At least in those moments I was paying attention, these seemed like the biggest issues of the day on Twitter:

  1. Twitter itself released a tool that lets you see your first ever tweet. Generally, people tweeted about their own first tweet only if it was funny-dumb or obviously lame in some way. Or they tweeted about their friends’ first tweets if those tweets were funny-dumb. But where they really had fun was thinking up and looking for famous (or semi-famous) people, generally of the Socially Acceptable to Hate kind, and one-upping each other on whose first tweet was the worst.
  2. The NCAA tournament got underway, and most of the tweets fell into two categories: complaining about how the first upset of the day ruined everyone’s (non-existent chance) at $1 billion for a perfect bracket, and making jokes about how bad it is that Harvard wins at basketball now or how great it is that Ohio State lost (that first big upset).
  3. For whatever reason, a newsletter about awful things written on the internet reached a new tier of exposure. The guy who puts it together seems to put a lot of work into it, and it is both comprehensive and entertaining. But its subject is basically hate-reading. “Here are the terrible things people published that we should scorn.” This was the one thing people generally agreed was great. Because, I suppose, of its core sarcasm.
  4. As discussion of sanctions against Russia progresses, nobody knows exactly what to think of it. People seem generally in favor of being against Russia’s activity in Crimea, but then what? Fortunately, everyone knows exactly how to make jokes about Putin or Kerry or Obama or saber-rattling neocons or any number of other political figures we’ve long since agreed live on the Butt of Jokes Plane of Existence. So we’re going with that.

Pretty average day, all in all.

As for me: I don’t know what the hell the right thing to do is in response to Russia bloodlessly invading and annexing sovereign Ukrainian territory, but I’m really rooting for the people who are trying to figure that out. I subscribe to said newsletter, and it entertains me, but it exhausts me, and I would rather the people I like most not be enamored of celebrating a daily shitstorm of terribleness. I generally like the NCAA Tournament, especially upsets, but I sure wish some of today’s sarcasm was about the NCAA exploiting unpaid—often poor, usually black—labor to enrich itself. My first tweet was sincere to the point of being overwrought and stupid, and I wish to hell that didn’t bother me.

Don’t worry if you weren’t online much today. I’m sure there’ll be plenty of the same tomorrow about all new topics. It’s just the way we are now.

Every happy man should have some one with a little hammer at his door to knock and remind him that there are unhappy people, and that, however happy he may be, life will sooner or later show its claws, and some misfortune will befall him—illness, poverty, loss, and then no one will see or hear him, just as he now neither sees nor hears others. But there is no man with a hammer, and the happy go on living, just a little fluttered with the petty cares of every day, like an aspen-tree in the wind—and everything is all right.

Anton Chekhov, “Gooseberries”