I read this interview once with Sam Neill, the Actor, and he was talking about how athletes and performers always thank God for their victory or award, and he said something like "What kind of a god is it that would pick you to be a winner and everyone else to be a loser?"
Courtesy of 2000 — Rebecca Mead's New Yorker profile of blogging pioneers Meg Hourihan and Jason Kottke (p.s. the New Yorker has the world's worst online archive mechanism, unless you're the world's only fan of digital microfiche):
Context: "What is Tumblr?" + one of my pet peeves:
I don't care what anyone says. I was there at beginning: the site is called a blog and it contains posts. You can't blog to yr blog. STFU.— Meg Hourihan (@megnut) May 20, 2013
I can only vouch for the deliciousness of this sandwich if you take five minutes to toast your own bread with some olive oil in a cast-iron pan. I say this from my personal experience of being the laziest person I know and the most resentful when it comes to letting any old-timey, Ma Ingalls-type cookery technique get between me and the food, not to mention my disgust at the passive-aggressive swindle that is cast-iron pan custodianship: this step is what makes the sandwich delicious. If you skip it you might as well just eat your fingers. THE END.
The absence of white space is a little over-the-top punch-in-the-face for me, but America gets what America wants.
Remember dream houses? I am X years older and 0 steps closer to owning one, and in fact we've likely reached the point where I would just drop dead immediately if the dream ever came true. Yet I beat on, like boats against the current, something something backwash, Gatsby ad infinitum.
But the moral of this story is who wouldn't want to live in a house that looks like a witch? Especially with some sort of ghostly peacock loitering on the front lawn at all hours of twilight! What a great way to participate in neighborhood trick-or-treating activities without actually having to give away any of your candy.
p.s.: Go read The Haunting of Hill House by Shirley Jackson posthaste, then fax me STAT with your findings. I found I almost peed in my pants.