white neighborhoods*

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…).

2013-10-31 10.21.59

image belongs to De Standaard

* words of the title in today’s De Standaard article

be proud of liking “Toxic”

“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.

friendzone reality check

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.

we were emergencies

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
but tonight
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 go.

Tonight
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.
Move forward
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.
Go slow.
I’m new to this.
But I have seen nearly every city from a rooftop
without jumping.
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
really broke
every time I fell from love
I’d be able to offer you confetti by now.

But hearts don’t break,
y’all,
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.

april 18

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