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Beautiful, Bored, and Head: Here's a prime example of "Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus" offered by an English professor from the University of Phoenix: The professor told his class one day: Today we will ex- periment with a new form called the tandem story The process is simple. Each person will pair off with the person sitting to his or her immediate right. As home- work tonight, one of you will write the first paragraph of a short story. You will e-mail your partner that para- graph and send another copy to me. The partner will read the first paragraph and then add another para- graph to the story and send it back, also sending an- other copy to me. The first person will then add a third paragraph, and so on back-and-forth. Remember to re-read what has been written each time in order to keep the story coherent. There is to be ab- solutely NO talking outside of the e-mails and any- thing you wish to say must be written in the e-mail. The story is over when both agree a con- clusion has been reached." The following was actually turned in by two of his English students: Rebecca and Gary THE STORY: (first paragraph by Rebecca) At first, Laurie couldn't decide which kind of tea she wanted. The chamomile, which used to be her favorite for lazy evenings at home, now reminded her too much of Carl, who once said, in happier times, that he liked chamomile. But she felt she must now, at all costs, keep her mind off Carl. His possessiveness was suffocating, and if she thought about him too much her asthma started acting up again. So chamomile was out of the second paragraph by Gary) Meanwhile, Advance Sergeant Carl Harris, leader of the attack squadron now in orbit over Skylon 4, had more important things to think about than the neuroses of an air-headed asthmatic bimbo named Laurie with whom he had spent one sweaty night over a year ago. "A.S. Harris to Geostation 17," he said into his transgalactic communicator. " Polar orbit established. No sign of resistance so far..." But before he could sign off a bluish particle beam flashed out of nowhere and blasted a hole through his ship's cargo bay. The jolt from the direct hit sent him flying out of his seat and across the ####pit. (Rebecca) He bumped his head and died almost immediately, but not before he felt one last pang of regret for psychically brutalizing the one woman who had ever had feelings for him. Soon afterwards, Earth stopped its pointless hostilities towards the peace ful farmers of Skylon 4. "Congress Passes Law Per- manently Abolishing War and Space Travel," Laurie read in her newspaper one morning. The news si- multaneously excited her and bored her. She stared out the window, dreaming of her youth, when the days had passed unhurriedly and care- free, with no newspaper to read, no television to distract her from her sense of innocent wonder at all the beautiful things around her. "Why must one lose one's innocence to become a woman?" she pondered wistfully Gary) Little did she know, but she had less than 10 sec- onds to live. Thousands of miles above the city, the Anu'udrian mothership launched the first of its lithium fusion missiles. The dimwitted wimpy peaceniks who pushed the Unilateral Aerospace disarmament Treaty through the congress had left Earth a defenseless target for the hostile alien em- pires who were determined to destroy the human race. Within two hours after the passage of the treaty the Anu'udrian ships were on course for Earth, carrying enough firepower to pulverize the With no one to stop them, they swiftly initiated their diabolical plan. The lithium fusion missile en- tered the atmosphere unimpeded. The President, in his top-secret mobile submarine headquarters on the ocean floor off the coast of Guam, felt the inconceivably massive explosion, which vaporized poor, stupid Laurie. (Rebecca) This is absurd. I refuse to continue this mockery of literature. My writing partner is a violent, chauvin- istic semi-literate adolescent. Gary) Yeah? Well, my writing partner is a self-centered tedious neurotic whose attempts at writing are the literary equivalent of Valium. Oh, shall I have chamomile tea? Or shall I have some other sort of F-KING TEA??? Oh no, what am I to do? I'm such an air headed bimbo who reads too many Danielle Steele novels!" Gary) B*tch. (Rebecca) F K YOU-YOU NEANDERTHALI In your dreams, Ho. Go drink some tea. A+ Ireally liked this one. epicjohndoe: A Very Good Example Of ‘Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus’
Beautiful, Bored, and Head: Here's a prime example of "Men Are
 From Mars, Women Are From Venus"
 offered by an English professor from
 the University of Phoenix:
 The professor told his class one day: Today we will ex-
 periment with a new form called the tandem story
 The process is simple. Each person will pair off with the
 person sitting to his or her immediate right. As home-
 work tonight, one of you will write the first paragraph
 of a short story. You will e-mail your partner that para-
 graph and send another copy to me. The partner will
 read the first paragraph and then add another para-
 graph to the story and send it back, also sending an-
 other copy to me. The first person will then add a third
 paragraph, and so on back-and-forth.
 Remember to re-read what has been written each time
 in order to keep the story coherent. There is to be ab-
 solutely NO talking outside of the e-mails and any-
 thing you wish to say must be written in the e-mail.
 The story is over when both agree a con-
 clusion has been reached."
 The following was actually turned in by two of his
 English students:
 Rebecca and Gary
 THE STORY:
 (first paragraph by Rebecca)
 At first, Laurie couldn't decide which kind of tea
 she wanted. The chamomile, which used to be her
 favorite for lazy evenings at home, now reminded
 her too much of Carl, who once said, in happier
 times, that he liked chamomile.
 But she felt she must now, at all costs, keep her
 mind off Carl. His possessiveness was suffocating,
 and if she thought about him too much her asthma
 started acting up again. So chamomile was out of
 the
 second paragraph by Gary)
 Meanwhile, Advance Sergeant Carl Harris, leader of
 the attack squadron now in orbit over Skylon 4,
 had more important things to think about than the
 neuroses of an air-headed asthmatic bimbo named
 Laurie with whom he had spent one sweaty night
 over a year ago. "A.S. Harris to Geostation 17," he
 said into his transgalactic communicator. " Polar
 orbit established. No sign of resistance so far..." But
 before he could sign off a bluish particle beam
 flashed out of nowhere and blasted a hole through
 his ship's cargo bay. The jolt from the direct hit sent
 him flying out of his seat and across the ####pit.
 (Rebecca)
 He bumped his head and died almost immediately,
 but not before he felt one last pang of regret for
 psychically brutalizing the one woman who had
 ever had feelings for him. Soon afterwards, Earth
 stopped its pointless hostilities towards the peace
 ful farmers of Skylon 4. "Congress Passes Law Per-
 manently Abolishing War and Space Travel," Laurie
 read in her newspaper one morning. The news si-
 multaneously excited her and bored her. She
 stared out the window, dreaming of her youth,
 when the days had passed unhurriedly and care-
 free, with no newspaper to read, no television to
 distract her from her sense of innocent wonder at
 all the beautiful things around
 her. "Why must one
 lose one's innocence to become a woman?" she
 pondered wistfully
 Gary)
 Little did she know, but she had less than 10 sec-
 onds to live. Thousands of miles above the city, the
 Anu'udrian mothership launched the first of its
 lithium fusion missiles. The dimwitted wimpy
 peaceniks who pushed the Unilateral Aerospace
 disarmament Treaty through the congress had left
 Earth a defenseless target for the hostile alien em-
 pires who were determined to destroy the human
 race. Within two hours after the passage of the
 treaty the Anu'udrian ships were on course for
 Earth, carrying enough firepower to pulverize the
 With no one to stop them, they swiftly initiated
 their diabolical plan. The lithium fusion missile en-
 tered the atmosphere unimpeded. The President,
 in his top-secret mobile submarine headquarters
 on the ocean floor off the coast of Guam, felt the
 inconceivably massive explosion, which vaporized
 poor, stupid Laurie.
 (Rebecca)
 This is absurd. I refuse to continue this mockery of
 literature. My writing partner is a violent, chauvin-
 istic semi-literate adolescent.
 Gary)
 Yeah? Well, my writing partner is a self-centered
 tedious neurotic whose attempts at writing are the
 literary equivalent of Valium. Oh, shall I have
 chamomile tea? Or shall I have some other sort of
 F-KING TEA??? Oh no, what am I to do? I'm such an
 air headed bimbo who reads too many Danielle
 Steele novels!"
 Gary)
 B*tch.
 (Rebecca)
 F K YOU-YOU NEANDERTHALI
 In your dreams, Ho. Go drink some tea.
 A+
 Ireally liked this one.
epicjohndoe:

A Very Good Example Of ‘Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus’

epicjohndoe: A Very Good Example Of ‘Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus’

America, Apparently, and Bad: normal-horoscopes: pooraurora: postmarxed: inkandcayenne: wilfulwayfarer: rasec-wizzlbang: dalaisa-katili: local-emo-mom: anarcho-individualist: explanatorypower: i dont understand this at all and america scares the fuck out of me This is the america they don’t want you to see i love america This is what you call Waffle House at 2 am when the bars close and everyone is drunk and hungry *group of people having fun*this site: wtf this is so scary People having safe fun at a waffle house is scary for most Tumblr bloggers, reports say. Some context for those not familiar with Waffle House Culture:  Waffle House is one of the few chains in America that’s open 24/7/365, and where you can get both breakfast and lunch/dinner options at any time (I have had so many Breakfast Cheeseburgers at Waffle Houses). The food is really good, and people eat there at all times of the day or night, but it’s particularly popular as a late-night post-drinking spot because it’s all that’s open and it’s the kind of food that tastes especially good when you’re hammered. Part of Waffle House Protocol is that all the servers and cooks greet every single customer as they come through the door. It sounds lame, but I’ve never been to a Waffle House where that greeting didn’t feel completely heartfelt. My mom is a health nut who could barely find anything on the menu she was willing to eat and yet she describes the Christmas Day lunch we had there one year as one of the nicest meals she’s ever had because everyone was so warm and welcoming. That sense of camaraderie gets turned up to 11, of course, at 2 a.m. when everyone’s shitfaced. The jukeboxes have Waffle-House-themed songs on them (once you have heard “Raisins in my Toast” you will be earwormed forever) and there is an arcane system of hash brown ordering: scattered, smothered, covered, chunked, topped, diced, peppered, and/or capped. The hot sauce bottles say “Casa de Waffle.”  Once, in Oxford (UK), my husband and I walked past a kebab van very late one night and he said “why do I smell Waffle House” The location of most Waffle Houses means there’s some… classism that tends to get tied up with Anti-Waffle House Discourse, which is probably lending itself, in part, to this being such a fraught topic. (I’m looking at a map and apparently I was born and raised right in the middle of the Peak Waffle House Density Zone) It is, in the words of chef Anthony Bourdain, “indeed marvelous— an irony-free zone where everything is beautiful and nothing hurts; where everybody regardless of race, creed, color or degree of inebriation is welcomed.” We’re not even gonna mention FEMA’s Waffle House Index where they determine how bad a natural disaster is by calling the local Waffle House to see if they’re open? #and wafflehouse is one of those spiritual places#2am friendships#its the same hazy feel#of cicadas and front porches with your friends Waffle House is physical and spiritual neutral territory. Starting shit in a Waffle House isn’t just bad form, it tips the entire natural balance of the universe against you.
America, Apparently, and Bad: normal-horoscopes:

pooraurora:

postmarxed:
inkandcayenne:

wilfulwayfarer:

rasec-wizzlbang:

dalaisa-katili:

local-emo-mom:

anarcho-individualist:

explanatorypower:
i dont understand this at all and america scares the fuck out of me

This is the america they don’t want you to see

i love america

This is what you call Waffle House at 2 am when the bars close and everyone is drunk and hungry

*group of people having fun*this site: wtf this is so scary


People having safe fun at a waffle house is scary for most Tumblr bloggers, reports say.

Some context for those not familiar with Waffle House Culture: 
Waffle House is one of the few chains in America that’s open 24/7/365, and where you can get both breakfast and lunch/dinner options at any time (I have had so many Breakfast Cheeseburgers at Waffle Houses). The food is really good, and people eat there at all times of the day or night, but it’s particularly popular as a late-night post-drinking spot because it’s all that’s open and it’s the kind of food that tastes especially good when you’re hammered.
Part of Waffle House Protocol is that all the servers and cooks greet every single customer as they come through the door. It sounds lame, but I’ve never been to a Waffle House where that greeting didn’t feel completely heartfelt. My mom is a health nut who could barely find anything on the menu she was willing to eat and yet she describes the Christmas Day lunch we had there one year as one of the nicest meals she’s ever had because everyone was so warm and welcoming. That sense of camaraderie gets turned up to 11, of course, at 2 a.m. when everyone’s shitfaced.
The jukeboxes have Waffle-House-themed songs on them (once you have heard “Raisins in my Toast” you will be earwormed forever) and there is an arcane system of hash brown ordering: scattered, smothered, covered, chunked, topped, diced, peppered, and/or capped. The hot sauce bottles say “Casa de Waffle.” 
Once, in Oxford (UK), my husband and I walked past a kebab van very late one night and he said “why do I smell Waffle House”
The location of most Waffle Houses means there’s some… classism that tends to get tied up with Anti-Waffle House Discourse, which is probably lending itself, in part, to this being such a fraught topic. (I’m looking at a map and apparently I was born and raised right in the middle of the Peak Waffle House Density Zone)
It is, in the words of chef Anthony Bourdain, “indeed marvelous— an irony-free zone where everything is beautiful and nothing hurts; where everybody regardless of race, creed, color or degree of inebriation is welcomed.”


We’re not even gonna mention FEMA’s Waffle House Index where they determine how bad a natural disaster is by calling the local Waffle House to see if they’re open? 



#and wafflehouse is one of those spiritual places#2am friendships#its the same hazy feel#of cicadas and front porches with your friends



Waffle House is physical and spiritual neutral territory. Starting shit in a Waffle House isn’t just bad form, it tips the entire natural balance of the universe against you.

normal-horoscopes: pooraurora: postmarxed: inkandcayenne: wilfulwayfarer: rasec-wizzlbang: dalaisa-katili: local-emo-mom: anarcho-ind...

Apparently, Bad, and Comfortable: theladyzephyr: Folks let me talk about Crowley and sunglasses, because I have a lot of emotions about when he wears them and when he doesn’t, and Hiding versus Being Seen. We’re introduced to the concept of Crowley wearing glasses even before we’re introduced to Crowley, by Hastur: “If you ask me he’s been up here too long. Gone native. Enjoying himself too much. Wearing sunglasses even when he doesn’t need them.” Honestly Crowley’s whole introduction is a fantastic; we learn so much about his character in a tiny amount of time. The fact that he’s late, the Queen playing as the Bentley approaches, the “Hi, guys” in response to Hastur and Ligur’s “Hail Satan”. I like this intro much better than the one originally scripted with the rats at the phone company, but I digress. Crowley wears sunglasses when he doesn’t need them. Specifically, he still wears them around the demons, and when he’s in hell. You know where Crowley doesn’t wear glasses? At home. We never once see him wearing glasses in his flat, except for when he knows Hastur and Ligur are coming. That’s an emotional kick to the gut for me. Here’s one of the only places Crowley’s comfortable enough to be sans glasses, and when he knows it’s going to be invaded he prepares not just physically with the holy water, but by putting up that emotional barrier in a place where he wasn’t supposed to need it. An argument could be made that Crowley actually never needs glasses. We’re shown that it’s well within the angels’ and demons’ powers to pass unnoticed by humans. Crowley and Aziraphale waltz out of the manor in the middle of a police raid, and going unnoticed by the police takes so little effort that they can keep up a conversation while they stroll through. Even an unimaginative demon like Hastur apparently doesn’t have trouble with the humans losing it over his demonic eyes. The humans in the scene at Megiddo are acting like “this guy is a little weird” and not “holy shit his entire eyeballs are black jelly” That means that Crowley’s glasses are a choice, just like Aziraphale’s softness. Sure, he could arrange matters so that nobody ever noticed his eyes, but he doesn’t want to. Crowley wants acceptance, and he wants to belong, and he’s never, ever had that. He didn’t fit in before the Fall in Heaven, he doesn’t fit in with the demons in Hell. With the glasses, and with the Bentley and his plants and with the barely-bad-enough-to-be-evil nuisance temptations, he’s choosing Earth. This is where he wants to fit in, perhaps not with the humans, but amongst them. Even after Crowley is at his absolute lowest, when he thinks Aziraphale’s dead and he’s on his way to drink until the world ends, he takes the time to put a new pair on when the old ones are damaged. He needs that emotional crutch right now, even with everything about to turn into a pile of puddling goo he’s not ready for the world to see his eyes. Which is why I swore out loud when Hastur forcibly takes them off. It’s about the worst thing that Hastur could have done. Rather than leading with a physical threat, his first act is to strip away Crowley’s emotional defences. It’s a great writing choice because god it made me hate Hastur, even more than all the physical violence we see him do. It’s also the moment that Crowley really truly gets his shit together, and focuses all of his considerable imagination on getting to Tadfield and Aziraphale to help save the world. He’s wielding the terrifyingly unimaginable power of someone who’s hit rock bottom and realised it literally could not get any worse than this. He doesn’t put another pair of glasses on after discorporating Hastur, and he spends the majority of the airbase sequence without them. He puts them back on again, I think, at the moment that he really lets himself hope. When he thinks ‘shit, there may be a real chance that we get through this to a future that I don’t want to lose’. The vulnerability is back, and he needs Adam to trust him. In Crowley’s mind being accepted by a human means he needs to have his eyes hidden. Someone give the demon a hug, please. Interestingly, there’s only one time in the whole series that we see Crowley willingly choose to take his glasses off around another person. Only one person he’ll take down that barrier for, and even then he’s drunk before he does it. Dear God/Satan/Someone that makes my heart ache. Crowley’s chosen Earth, but he’s also chosen Aziraphale. He’s been looking for somewhere to belong his entire existence, and it’s with the angel that he finally feels it. When the dust settles and the world is saved and they finally have space to be themselves unguarded, I like to imagine Crowley takes off the glasses when it’s just the two of them; the idea of being known doesn’t scare him quite so much anymore.  
Apparently, Bad, and Comfortable: theladyzephyr:

Folks let me talk about Crowley and sunglasses, because I have a lot of emotions about when he wears them and when he doesn’t, and Hiding versus Being Seen.
We’re introduced to the concept of Crowley wearing glasses even before we’re introduced to Crowley, by Hastur: “If you ask me he’s been up here too long. Gone native. Enjoying himself too much. Wearing sunglasses even when he doesn’t need them.”
Honestly Crowley’s whole introduction is a fantastic; we learn so much about his character in a tiny amount of time. The fact that he’s late, the Queen playing as the Bentley approaches, the “Hi, guys” in response to Hastur and Ligur’s “Hail Satan”. I like this intro much better than the one originally scripted with the rats at the phone company, but I digress.
Crowley wears sunglasses when he doesn’t need them. Specifically, he still wears them around the demons, and when he’s in hell.
You know where Crowley doesn’t wear glasses? At home.
We never once see him wearing glasses in his flat, except for when he knows Hastur and Ligur are coming. That’s an emotional kick to the gut for me. Here’s one of the only places Crowley’s comfortable enough to be sans glasses, and when he knows it’s going to be invaded he prepares not just physically with the holy water, but by putting up that emotional barrier in a place where he wasn’t supposed to need it.
An argument could be made that Crowley actually never needs glasses. We’re shown that it’s well within the angels’ and demons’ powers to pass unnoticed by humans. Crowley and Aziraphale waltz out of the manor in the middle of a police raid, and going unnoticed by the police takes so little effort that they can keep up a conversation while they stroll through. Even an unimaginative demon like Hastur apparently doesn’t have trouble with the humans losing it over his demonic eyes. The humans in the scene at Megiddo are acting like “this guy is a little weird” and not “holy shit his entire eyeballs are black jelly”
That means that Crowley’s glasses are a choice, just like Aziraphale’s softness. Sure, he could arrange matters so that nobody ever noticed his eyes, but he doesn’t want to. Crowley wants acceptance, and he wants to belong, and he’s never, ever had that. He didn’t fit in before the Fall in Heaven, he doesn’t fit in with the demons in Hell. With the glasses, and with the Bentley and his plants and with the barely-bad-enough-to-be-evil nuisance temptations, he’s choosing Earth. This is where he wants to fit in, perhaps not with the humans, but amongst them.
Even after Crowley is at his absolute lowest, when he thinks Aziraphale’s dead and he’s on his way to drink until the world ends, he takes the time to put a new pair on when the old ones are damaged. He needs that emotional crutch right now, even with everything about to turn into a pile of puddling goo he’s not ready for the world to see his eyes.
Which is why I swore out loud when Hastur forcibly takes them off.
It’s about the worst thing that Hastur could have done. Rather than leading with a physical threat, his first act is to strip away Crowley’s emotional defences. It’s a great writing choice because god it made me hate Hastur, even more than all the physical violence we see him do.
It’s also the moment that Crowley really truly gets his shit together, and focuses all of his considerable imagination on getting to Tadfield and Aziraphale to help save the world. He’s wielding the terrifyingly unimaginable power of someone who’s hit rock bottom and realised it literally could not get any worse than this. He doesn’t put another pair of glasses on after discorporating Hastur, and he spends the majority of the airbase sequence without them.
He puts them back on again, I think, at the moment that he really lets himself hope. When he thinks ‘shit, there may be a real chance that we get through this to a future that I don’t want to lose’.
The vulnerability is back, and he needs Adam to trust him. In Crowley’s mind being accepted by a human means he needs to have his eyes hidden. Someone give the demon a hug, please.
Interestingly, there’s only one time in the whole series that we see Crowley willingly choose to take his glasses off around another person. Only one person he’ll take down that barrier for, and even then he’s drunk before he does it.
Dear God/Satan/Someone that makes my heart ache. Crowley’s chosen Earth, but he’s also chosen Aziraphale. He’s been looking for somewhere to belong his entire existence, and it’s with the angel that he finally feels it.
When the dust settles and the world is saved and they finally have space to be themselves unguarded, I like to imagine Crowley takes off the glasses when it’s just the two of them; the idea of being known doesn’t scare him quite so much anymore.  

theladyzephyr: Folks let me talk about Crowley and sunglasses, because I have a lot of emotions about when he wears them and when he doesn’...