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One of my all-time favorite songs.

(Source: Spotify)

Tags: music spotify
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animalstalkinginallcaps:

WHAT DO YOU MEAN I’M A “ONE-UPPER”?
I MEAN THAT YOU EXAGGERATE OR OUTRIGHT LIE, NOT ONLY TO MAKE YOURSELF SEEM FAR MORE INTERESTING THAN YOU ACTUALLY ARE, BUT ALSO OUT OF A MISGUIDED SPIRIT OF COMPETITIVENESS AND/OR ENVY. THAT YOU WILL NOT ALLOW YOURSELF TO JUST ENJOY SOMEONE ELSE’S EXPERIENCES AND ACCOMPLISHMENTS BECAUSE IT ERRONEOUSLY MAKES YOU FEEL INFERIOR, SO YOU FABRICATE WIDLY IMPROBABLE TALES TO SUIT YOUR NEED FOR SITUATIONAL DOMINANCE. THAT IS WHAT I MEAN BY THAT.
I DON’T DO THAT.
I’D ARGUE, BUT I HAVE A DATE AT 5:30 AND I NEED TO GET READY.
WELL THAT’S FINE WITH ME, BECAUSE I HAVE TWO DATES AT 5:30.

I know that bird.

animalstalkinginallcaps:

WHAT DO YOU MEAN I’M A “ONE-UPPER”?

I MEAN THAT YOU EXAGGERATE OR OUTRIGHT LIE, NOT ONLY TO MAKE YOURSELF SEEM FAR MORE INTERESTING THAN YOU ACTUALLY ARE, BUT ALSO OUT OF A MISGUIDED SPIRIT OF COMPETITIVENESS AND/OR ENVY. THAT YOU WILL NOT ALLOW YOURSELF TO JUST ENJOY SOMEONE ELSE’S EXPERIENCES AND ACCOMPLISHMENTS BECAUSE IT ERRONEOUSLY MAKES YOU FEEL INFERIOR, SO YOU FABRICATE WIDLY IMPROBABLE TALES TO SUIT YOUR NEED FOR SITUATIONAL DOMINANCE. THAT IS WHAT I MEAN BY THAT.

I DON’T DO THAT.

I’D ARGUE, BUT I HAVE A DATE AT 5:30 AND I NEED TO GET READY.

WELL THAT’S FINE WITH ME, BECAUSE I HAVE TWO DATES AT 5:30.

I know that bird.

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pennyfornasa:

As NASA’s Cassini mission nears it’s 10th anniversary, the team is looking for your help in naming its final mission phase!
As is illustrated in the accompanying image, “In late 2016, the Cassini spacecraft will begin a completely new type of mission at Saturn. During its final months, the intrepid spacecraft’s orbit will carry it high above the planet’s north pole and then send it plunging between the planet and the innermost edge of its dazzling rings.”
Originally coined, “the proximal orbits”, the Cassini team is reaching out to the public to help them come up with something a little more exciting. Those who’ve submitted a suggestion won’t have to wait long to hear if theirs was selected; the big reveal will be in May 2014!
Choose your favorite names from the list provided, or submit one of your own: http://goo.gl/lnQhcL
For more information on the contest, visit:
http://saturn.jpl.nasa.gov/name
Celebrate Cassini by writing to Congress to let them know you support doubling funding for NASA: http://www.penny4nasa.org/take-action/

I voted for “Ring Fall”.

pennyfornasa:

As NASA’s Cassini mission nears it’s 10th anniversary, the team is looking for your help in naming its final mission phase!

As is illustrated in the accompanying image, “In late 2016, the Cassini spacecraft will begin a completely new type of mission at Saturn. During its final months, the intrepid spacecraft’s orbit will carry it high above the planet’s north pole and then send it plunging between the planet and the innermost edge of its dazzling rings.

Originally coined, “the proximal orbits”, the Cassini team is reaching out to the public to help them come up with something a little more exciting. Those who’ve submitted a suggestion won’t have to wait long to hear if theirs was selected; the big reveal will be in May 2014!

Choose your favorite names from the list provided, or submit one of your own: http://goo.gl/lnQhcL

For more information on the contest, visit:

http://saturn.jpl.nasa.gov/name

Celebrate Cassini by writing to Congress to let them know you support doubling funding for NASA: http://www.penny4nasa.org/take-action/

I voted for “Ring Fall”.

Quote
"

The lawsuit, Morgan v. Martinez, was brought on behalf of Leesburg, N.J., resident Shannon Morgan, an atheist. In November 2013, Morgan attempted to register for an “8THEIST” plate on the New Jersey Motor Vehicle Commission’s website, only to have it rejected because it is “objectionable.” She then entered “BAPTIST” as a proposed plate in the commission website, and that plate was deemed permissible.

Morgan contacted the commission for assistance with registering her “8THEIST” plate and was told by an employee that it was unknown why her request had been denied. Other attempts made by Morgan to get approval for her plate were ignored.

This is not the first time an atheist plate has been denied by the commission. In August 2013, American Atheists President David Silverman applied for a plate that said “ATHE1ST,” which commission found “offensive.”

“The Commission thus has a practice of denying personalized license plates that identify vehicle owners as atheist, thereby discriminating against atheist viewpoints and expressing a preference for religion over atheism,” AU says in its lawsuit.

"

Americans United Asks Federal Court To Approve New Jersey Atheist’s Custom License Plate | Americans United

WTF, New Jersey.

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flagg0t:

If someone tells you to listen to a song, listen to it.  It may be the worst song you have ever heard but they wanted to share it with you.  That is really special.  If it makes them feel a certain way and they are so adamant about you hearing it, take 5 minutes to hear it.  It shows a lot about someone.  

And DON’T TALK OVER IT. Thank you.

(via takingtherestofthedayoff)

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bobbieroundstheworld:

Here’s this chill thing Cass wrote about our adventures over land. Twas a magical time / miss my boo, dearly. 

winesburgohio:

We spent two days in Tawau, ignorantly bullying our way into same day visas on the first, but missing the ferry, anyway, because we forgot to check the schedules on the second. In a fit of good luck mixed with the bad, though, we met the captain of the ship while waiting in line for coffee, and he let us drive the whole shebang over the border into Indonesia. It took two and a half hours, throughout which we sat in the pilot house, E. wrenching the great wheel right and then left to avoid shallow spots. Behind us, over 200 passengers hadn’t a clue.

At first, I didn’t understand why people put so much rice on their plates at dinner; then I saw that they typically ate with their hands, using the rice as a kind of food velcro. They only used spoons and knives when we were around, out of politeness. Then, I felt guilty for resenting the necessity of pants. We were each invisibly giving a little, you see. After living on a riverboat for two days with a pair of devout Muslim men, it was revealed to us that they had quizzed our tour guide endlessly on Western behaviors: “In which hand do you hold the spoon? Should we eat in multiple courses? What is the most common dessert?” They were extremely nervous and poised. Meanwhile, E. and I were calling the crew “Handsome Family” and trailing our feet off the bow, into the water. Oblivious as fishes. 

Men that were less polite tried to gain our attention by regularly throwing their cigarette butts at our feet. “Hey Mister,” they’d say to us in English. We fought back, targeting the most egregious swindlers and pulling a fast one at the last possible minute. Everywhere we went our actions were broadcast like news reports, passed from mouth to mouth over our heads; onlookers discussing the food we ordered, the clothes we wore, where they thought we were from. It was a massive, moving network of intense speculation. When bidding goodbye to a family that had invited me in for tea, a grandfather shook my hand gravely, tears visible in his old, gray eyes. “You are the first person with blue eyes that I have ever shaken hands with,” he told me, trembling slightly.

Every night there were tropical thunderstorms. I was delighted but everybody else was grumbling: the lightning made them jumpy. “Storms aren’t so great for people who live mostly outdoors,” E. monotoned from one corner of her mouth while sipping Rocket Fuel from the other. The Rocket Fuel was quality stuff, home fermented liquors made from whatever was around: banana peels, orange slices, rice pieces. It tasted like gasoline and was highly effective. Coming into the country, the immigration officials had warned us with full page portraits of confiscated liquor bottles. “Jail,” they said sternly. “Jail,” they repeated. Then they pretended to have lost our passports and asked if we were married, while giggling maniacally. It took over two hours to clear their offices, for what presumably should have been twenty minutes. 

E. wanted to live in Mexico, Papau New Guinea, Borneo, and somewhere else, eventually.

All places were hot and sitting still was impossible. We reduced our wardrobe to a few pieces of disposable clothing each, to prevent our stink from spreading onto everything we owned. This did not, however, prevent the spread of our stink in public places, something we found particularly embarrassing every time that we were crammed into tiny, public busses with dozens of people for hours at a time. These rides between places were often long and excruciating — excruciating for the others, I mean, because E. and I would be shaking with laughter and making jokes the whole way. Eventually a simple hand gesture was enough to set us off, leaving the woebegone others to muddle confusedly over our apparent and boundless joy. Meanwhile, the busses were driven like misfired mitochondria, pure hysterical energy. They drove inside and outside of other vehicles, over potholes, and straight into oncoming traffic, even in torrential, typhoon-esque downpours. “What the fuck is this!” shouted E., who’d been sleeping. It was pouring rain out of a black sky and our driver was speeding in the wrong lane while texting. 

It was even worse when we tried to leave. I’d forgotten my departure card and they wouldn’t let us through. We thought they were kidding until we realized they weren’t, and that’d we have to bribe them or die, old women together, in Indonesia. E. pulled out a field recorder, large and pulsing with its ominous red eye. The immigration official paled considerably. “Bichara! Bichara!” she coaxed sweetly. Talk, talk. “We are journalists.” We were shown immediately into the back office, where we were given cake and watched the boss accept bribes for the rest of the afternoon. 

"Why are you here?" he eventually asked us. We told him: we had come to Kumai to find the last remaining orangutans. There were only a few tens of thousand left in the world, and most of that population lived in the jungles of Borneo. They were tentatively adjusted to humans, by now, so when we finally did come across some, they eased out of the trees and knuckled around on the paths alongside us. A youngish male, a mother, and a rusty-colored beast named Tom. We were like children, then, sparkling with excitement. 

This was before, due to uncontrollable circumstances, we got stuck. Then, we coaxed free room and board from an out-of-work river boat, sleeping in the shadows of cargo ships and waking at 5 AM with the daily prayer calls. 5 AM was also when they powered on the Bird Houses — huge concrete behemoths that shouted mimicked bird calls from dawn until dusk, in the hopes of attracting sparrows, whose intricate spit nests could be collected and exported to China for thousands and thousands of dollars. The river boat owner, face pitted from crystal meth use, slept in the hold until noon. He spoke five or six languages, an economic sort of intelligence that availed him to the thousands of tourists who came through each year. “He’s a real character,” they’d probably confide later, to their friends. “Pretty sure he spent our entire deposit in the pub the night before. Showed up late, eyes shot to bloody hell.” and the like.

Our own boat was a problem, too. We’d left it in Semporna, over 700 miles away, in the care of some fishermen. They hated us by now, we suspected. It’d been two weeks and we’d said we’d be gone three days. Things happened, though. It took us eight days to get out, but only three to get back, and we struggled into the dinghy with a carton full of beers, cigarettes, and wine. Peace offerings. The fishermen accepted gladly and hadn’t even minded our absence. Instead, they were proud of having taken excellent care of the boat. (We were never sure, but there was even some evidence that they had cleaned.) Afterward, we all drank long into the night, smoking cigarettes and doing the robot to pop songs. 

In the end we were broke, but we had celebrated living.

Amazing. Stumbled across this girl Emily Richmond’s blog from this article: http://thebillfold.com/2014/04/sailing-around-the-world-and-getting-by-without-cash/

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"The future may offer a reprieve from agonizing allergy seasons. Leonard Bielory, an environmental sciences professor at Rutgers, predicted in Scientific American that a warming planet will eventually cause pollen counts to taper off. “It cannot continue on a linear scale,” he said. “If heat goes up to a certain temperature, plants will die. It will hit a breaking point.” Of course, at that point, a prolonged allergy season won’t be high on the list of problems."

A Brutal Allergy Season Is Ahead. Blame the Polar Vortex. | Mother Jones

Pretty spectacular ending to that article! Lol.

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theatlantic:

The Private Lives of Public Bathrooms

How psychology, gender roles, and design explain the distinctive way we behave in the world’s stalls.
Read more. [Image: Shutterstock]


“This shines a light on what it means for men and women to be exclusively in the company of their own sex,” Moore told me in an email. “For women this is often liberating; for men it’s often anxiety-inducing.”
In a study published in the British Journal of Criminology in 2012, Moore, along with Simon Breeze, observed 20 public toilets in London and Bristol, and interviewed the men and women who used them. She found that though both sexes had plenty of complaints, women’s were more about the cleanliness and quality of the facilities than anxiety about other occupants. They were more relaxed and social overall, chatting with strangers in line, watching doors for each other, sharing makeup.
Men, on the other hand, were on edge. Moore goes so far in the study as to say that for men, public toilets are “nightmarish spaces.” The anxiety they reported was centered around “watching”—being watched by other men, or being perceived to be watching other men—and that this watching was linked to the possibility of sexual violence.
The theory Moore lays out is that, in public, the gender hierarchy makes women the ones who are watched (under the “male gaze,” as it were). But in the bathroom, sans women, men worry about being the object of another man’s gaze, a feeling they don’t often confront in other places. This can make them fearful, even if there’s no real threat present.”
Jeez, guys.

theatlantic:

The Private Lives of Public Bathrooms

How psychology, gender roles, and design explain the distinctive way we behave in the world’s stalls.

Read more. [Image: Shutterstock]

“This shines a light on what it means for men and women to be exclusively in the company of their own sex,” Moore told me in an email. “For women this is often liberating; for men it’s often anxiety-inducing.”

In a study published in the British Journal of Criminology in 2012, Moore, along with Simon Breeze, observed 20 public toilets in London and Bristol, and interviewed the men and women who used them. She found that though both sexes had plenty of complaints, women’s were more about the cleanliness and quality of the facilities than anxiety about other occupants. They were more relaxed and social overall, chatting with strangers in line, watching doors for each other, sharing makeup.

Men, on the other hand, were on edge. Moore goes so far in the study as to say that for men, public toilets are “nightmarish spaces.” The anxiety they reported was centered around “watching”—being watched by other men, or being perceived to be watching other men—and that this watching was linked to the possibility of sexual violence.

The theory Moore lays out is that, in public, the gender hierarchy makes women the ones who are watched (under the “male gaze,” as it were). But in the bathroom, sans women, men worry about being the object of another man’s gaze, a feeling they don’t often confront in other places. This can make them fearful, even if there’s no real threat present.”

Jeez, guys.

(via darksilenceinsuburbia)

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vicenews:

Meet the Kurdish Motorcycle Gang Helping Syrian Refugees in Iraq

“Instead of bringing supplies, Median Empire members brought money and visited the camp to see what the residents needed. Fearing corruption, they then purchased everything themselves and handed it directly to the refugees. “Our president was smart enough, he went and looked around first to see the issues,” said Fat Joe.”

vicenews:

Meet the Kurdish Motorcycle Gang Helping Syrian Refugees in Iraq

Instead of bringing supplies, Median Empire members brought money and visited the camp to see what the residents needed. Fearing corruption, they then purchased everything themselves and handed it directly to the refugees. “Our president was smart enough, he went and looked around first to see the issues,” said Fat Joe.”

(via darksilenceinsuburbia)

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wednesdaycute:

(via Battle kitten… - The Meta Picture)

LOL. Battle Cat immediately makes me think of He-Man…

wednesdaycute:

(via Battle kitten… - The Meta Picture)

LOL. Battle Cat immediately makes me think of He-Man…

(via darksilenceinsuburbia)

Tags: cats kittens