gen x girls grew too cool to touch and millennials gayed the world the rest of the way limp in their piteous attempts to save it.
her lips run right off her head
she wets the bed in stereo
Many a novel today is a screenplay with feelings.
H-E-double hockey sticks
Enemas blastin!
Nemo me impune lacessit - pueri et infirmi, qui scripsit in pupa.
Honoring AV Club's restraining order against me from this day forward
“I look forward to the time when I shall refuse to learn another thing, having accumulated errors enough.” Charles Fort
Suicide is all theory until you fall in love with a piece of shit.
Writers are running out of good guy badges. Virtue signaling shame ponies and other cultural nyet.
It's the kind of world that makes you vomit well into sobriety.
piss you one cleaner than your trackshoes, say i / sex toys on lease to i / houses for my centipede, ow / coke that asshole into skinny fleece / clean up with her spate, guy / suck stray dogs in the cock wound, i / lick what your god's got, why / imma mafuckun star boi
Is it ok to bite the hand that feeds you if the food is mostly rubber?
Acting isn’t enough anymore. They should have to hurt themselves.
Not every cry is a cry for help.
Not Guilty by Reason of Insanity, the Sequel, or Part Zilch of Ten Billion, My Entire Oeuvre is this Film, a Mental Disturbance of a Review, 666 Words in Length
Must we insist on doling out movies by the stratagem?
Black Phillip says monogamy means convincing somebody they like being controlled.
Please, let it fuck me if I have it. Right? Fucking USA, again. If one person is making a bona fide constructive statement, the other nine are making you their bitch.
Where is the sequel with everyone’s joy icon shown twenty years down the road, morphed into a cenobite, gnawing the bedpost it tied itself to, libidinously squelched?
I’m a stockpiling cakemix of a man trapped in the well Tarantino dug for me around age eleven.
Over the course of being mounted by this tome, I took up a pipe, drank scotch from an airplane toilet, consigned to rubbing myself down with strange bleaches, minced any sense of diet intentionally diabetic by an assortment of binge ate junk...
...darling Jennifer Jason Leigh. An actress who knows pain and ain’t fucking around. I miss her for his art. Margot at the Wedding is devastating. It is pursed-lips mean. You can’t measure its parsimony on heart.
If you’re of the age to have returned that difficult game (I’m too trapped nowhere between gen Xers and millennials to pipe up about this or anything, though I favor the X for its aesthetic absurdities pluming in the early-to-mid 90s culture that raised me), or are of the mindset to grouse at the receipt for any difficult entertainment, then your whole life is probably you snitching on yourself under the guise of being genuine, and you should continue to embrace your deciphered and dimensionally rounded community of bullshit Star Wars enthusiasm which predominately infects the arts (or get fucked in your ball cap).
If someone insists you smile, it might as well be rape. This movie found a way to nitpick itself the way these types nitpick everyone around them about presenting the right attitude. Someone in this land will always be subjecting you to the editorial fructose of their imperial fertility. If Bird’s intent was to satirize our fretful American condition, I didn’t understand, because I left the fucking theater right when the film began – about an hour in.
There’s so much freakshow in you, Charlie, I thought: I love you, but, look, you’ve been treated like a citizen enough to have cop friends. Sometimes I think you think all creative expression falls under Reganomics. Then he’s in my face with six reasons why I’m hardly pubic or adjusted. Yes, I’m a pussy. I get it.
Only someone whose amazing art can no longer hide them from the petty philanthropy hopefully juxtaposing the asinine incest of their crimes would issue such a dollar bill of a sentence.
Being human is about: what’s unobtainable today?
To recover from the grand wizard of empathy’s commencement speech, I have since camped at grocery stores, when I can afford them, awaiting the flotation device of my college degree’s supposed intellectual extenuation of the human gridlock.
Hopefully, I’ve ingested enough synthetic flavor to stop my heart real early. Or to maintain tinnitus for the length of a harassing phone call. If not, the only responsibility of the adult is to be their own Kevorkian.
Then the world boned its youth one worse. Even if you weren’t participating, they made not giving a fuck popular.
Cinetopia is a Detroit film festival for fresh retirees on a cinematic tour bus who belch knowingly whenever they mistake their hunched way into an obscene masterpiece.
Some animals devour their young to cease lactation so they can fuck more often. People tripped over the invention of a conscience for no other happenstance than to keep our numbers plump.
Gosling has an understanding beyond the Franco. There’s a certain silence to his pose. I dig his tone, even if he’s sexy.
Not belonging feels more and more like banging a rough cookie on the counter these days. I would take pride in my crumbs, if I knew how. It’s good to be alive like a delinquent spaz.
PS – This film deserves its every cult and to be ranked even beyond into the commonly over-valued status of a classic
Seinfeld near tits is an innovative sight. A billionaire can only be cropped next to libidinous events with CGI. It appears comedians struggle to retrieve their teeth back from fame.
We tried training the Doberman abandoned a yard down with chemically flattened ham
I think Hemingway killed the subordinate clause because it looked at him slantward from the shelled nobility of an era that deserved Victorianism.
The tone deaf values most families scrambled to anesthetize irked my metabolism.
I’m troubled to notice odd similarities between my nihilism and the right wing.
Between The Social Network and The Imitation Game, we can decipher precisely how our genitals should disrobe us. I, for one, will be relieved to wave them uploaded straight under Darwin’s
I only look you in the eyes if I’m sure the condom’s on.
This is the first magic realist mumblecore psychological love story thriller shot over eight years of Claymation.
and it is always okay to be cruel in the arts, whether people like him are in on it or not, because who cares, internet (hey internet, how do I take a selfie of my fucking concern for others?)
When I was young, I wanted one of those Davy Crockett hats. Because I admire psychopaths.
Shucks, you know the only racism worth a damn comes from poverty. I like Franco when he’s silly.
PS. I was part of an email the studio campaign in the early 2000s to openly mock the idea of a Dawn of the Dead remake, before remakes were a condition.
Is Chekov why I’m so sad? I’ll give you twenty bucks for a plot in literature that acknowledges his talent, but ignores him slightly more.
I spend my free time an appropriate amount of bed sick. I keep a lot of spare pieces of glass up my carpeted self. I mean a literal debris of glass happens when I sit forward.
A relationship’s complacency can only end atop the stripped sinew of an erect Doogie Howser. We’re not gonna hide at being perfect.
People want their maniacs explained. But there is no autopsy deft enough to expose how sensually disfigured a mind can get.
When you love someone who won’t love you back, that is your full time job.
Please go read the reviews for this movie on The Onion, the pissant caboodle that now passes for Roger Ebert.com, and Ain’t It Cool News, yeah, them too, for some reason.
You can’t ban my books for saying this shit because no one bought them anyway. Some guys have all the luck.
How they say something doesn’t wink at an audience, this caws its eyelids off. What we got? Mad Men? True Detective? Those shows are about acting. (Sometimes about writing in service of plot. Oh, True Detective, almost, so close until the final explanation cribs us all.)
Where the fuck are the collected plays of Ron Allen? The police have won, that’s where.
I never knew a woman who wasn’t capable of killing me with a sentence. Until now?
If one person can take from this that it is not about privilege, it is not fiction versus poet, it is none of the internet fashions of complaint and it is not anonymous (even though I am any-goddamn-pleasing-way anonymous with or without my fucking name) ...
My fault for side-stepping the usual male pretense at sensitivity or smug confidence of manipulation. I’ve saved it all for this fucking Lish frottage of a sentence.
Sean Kilpatrick: If you and I could be said to exist outside ye old literary camps, and I think our flags remain hygienic because I don’t leave the house and you’re too good at what you do, also
You know shit’s over when they flunk a nihilist out of the suckass pedagogy for bringing too much optimism.
inhabited a square-foot ghetto in Austin, cute by standards of being raised south of 8 mile, upside Detroit’s unfair putty
I won’t front about Jarmusch. He’s cooler than my ability to describe shit. He’s our genuinely cool filmmaker, anachronistic above ideal, an atavist with perfect hair. He’s the reason people should
I enjoy when a formal beauty proves they have art. Gosling did. Even Shia. Franco tries. We all mean well. There’s lots of ways to feel pain besides being ugly
Enemy is the only title a film about relationships should have.
Why is Von Trier my man? He’s my man whose bruises I refuse to conceal. I have no debate or defense, he’s atop me. I must strangle myself in his defense.
The twee hustle a brand of nostalgia excluding most. The characters involved are living out the party you missed through the entirety of your twenties. This longing accrues until you place yourself
And if a man in a dress shirt and sneakers mashing his foreskin upwind during urination upon yonder innocent lass, tweeting, “Soon I will be an integral part of your biography,” isn’t for you, here’s to you.
Bean cures hetero monogamy of squareness
flipping out total blond and brunette loser pal road trip butt munch style and going 80s rampage at their sperm.
A lady doesn’t need makeup unless it’s the war paint she’s putting on to end me.
Did you know mites are accruing primo destinies beneath my fur? Their spit glues each lover I’ve loved deeper into the next. I am a different, lesser value cajoled of that saliva. The trophies I
The American stillborn sense of justice has worn its grave so truthfully all things pious count no more and didn’t then. We want poignant documentaries, exposes of humanitarian needlework to rally
FIRST GINORMOUS MONSTER GIFS DO THEIR GALL ON CITIES LIKE THE CONSTANT PENETRATION WE KNOW WE PARSE AND THEN ROBOTS CHILDREN HAND THEIR SHOES TO FUCK YES THEIR LITTLE SHOES BY COMPARISON TO HOLY
Dearest Aubrey,
Thou hovereth - petite creature, mosaically charmed, whose eschewal doth blemish my undeserving metabolism - stroked betwixt channels what-have-you, tugged bestrewn through
Note to critics: Nicolas Winding Refn is your better.
Remember being mammalian in the friar patch?
Remember your best reserve for slattern hells?
Remember being mammalian?
This gizmo stuck in my fuss like a picnic,
