Percentage of Flanders Belgians who prefer their neighborhoods to be almost totally (gray column) or in its majority (orange column) inhabited by citizens of Belgian ascendancy, in function of their urban setting (large city, suburbia, countryside…).
image belongs to De Standaard
* words of the title in today’s De Standaard article
“I don’t believe in guilty pleasures. If you fucking like something, like it. That’s what’s wrong with our generation: that residual punk rock guilt, like, “You’re not supposed to like that. That’s not fucking cool.” Don’t fucking think it’s not cool to like Britney Spears’ “Toxic.” It is cool to like Britney Spears’ “Toxic”! Why the fuck not? Fuck you! That’s who I am, goddamn it! That whole guilty pleasure thing is full of fucking shit.”
– Dave Grohl in WTF with Marc Maron
Finally, someone said it.
I’ve been seeing a great deal of talking and joking about the friendzone in the social media. Those often tease the friendzoned (the poor wanker) but convey an overall detrimental image of the friendzonee (the heartless bitch).
I think y’all need
<a reality check>
The friendzone is what men call the outraging circumstance when a women cares for them and hence wants them is her life but refuses to do so through sex and/or a romantic involvement.
It’s when a guy pouts because she dared to say no. It’s men’s attempt on shaming the women they are pinning for.
It´s a misogynist pity party.
</a reality check>
Also read this brilliant rant I came across on Tumblr.
As the years move on
These questions they will shape
Are you getting stronger
Or is time shifting weight
No one expects you to understand
Just to live what little life
Your mended heart can
(Sleeping at Last)
Guido van der Werve – I’m sorry, but not surprised about the skylight. © roofvogel
We can stick anything into the fog
and make it look like a ghost
let us not become tragedies.
We are not funeral homes
with propane tanks in our windows,
lookin’ like cemeteries.
Cemeteries are just the Earth’s way of not letting go.
let’s turn our silly wrists so far backwards
the razor blades in our pencil tips
can’t get a good angle on all that beauty inside.
Step into this
with your airplane parts.
and repeat after me with your heart:
“I no longer need you to fuck me as hard as I hated myself.”
Make love to me
like you know I am better
than the worst thing I ever did.
I’m new to this.
But I have seen nearly every city from a rooftop
I have realized
that the moon
did not have to be full for us to love it,
that we are not tragedies
stranded here beneath it,
that if my heart
every time I fell from love
I’d be able to offer you confetti by now.
But hearts don’t break,
they bruise and get better.
We were never tragedies.
We were emergencies.
You call 9 – 1 – 1.
Tell them I’m having a fantastic time.
This might as well be one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever read. Written by Buddy Wakefield, American slam poet. Figures: it really makes me wanna stage it out loud.
– aquela dança dessincopada horrível que toda a gente anda a fazer na internet é um atentado ao legado cultural de Harlem que é o seu shake;
– o Harlem Shake é, na verdade, uma variação do kuduro (último minuto do vídeo).
Last weekend I picked up a quotes journal at a local bookshop:
Where was this all my life?
Because Sylvia Plath died 50 years ago.
the slime of all my yesterdays
rots in the hollow of my skull
and if my stomach would contract
because of some explicable phenomenon
such as pregnancy or constipation
I would not remember you
or that because of sleep
infrequent as a moon of greencheese
that because of food
nourishing as violet leaves
that because of these
and in a few fatal yards of grass
in a few spaces of sky and treetops
a future was lost yesterday
as easily and irretrievably
as a tennis ball at twilight
train tracks always meet, not here, but only
in the impossible mind’s eye;
horizons beat a retreat as we embark
on sophist seas to overtake that mark
where wave pretends to drench real sky…”
Sylvia Plath, Love is a Parallax