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hm i'm stephanie. NY. a teenager. a nerd. Let's waste time chasing cars around our heads.

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Reblogged from allmymetaphors
allmymetaphors:

f scott fitzgerald 

allmymetaphors:

f scott fitzgerald 

(via aseriesofnouns)

Reblogged from delta-breezes
Reblogged from euo

euo:

Lost in Translation (2003) vs. Her (2013)

Sofia Coppola and Spike Jonze were married for 4 years before divorcing in 2003. Many people believe that Lost in Translation (2003) is about their marriage, Scarlett Johansson playing Sofia, describing the events that lead to the downfall of their relationship. Similarly enough, it is speculated that Her (2013) is Spike Jonze’s response to Coppola’s depiction, showing his point of view. The films feature similar themes and shots, like the one above.

(via mustbesane)

Reblogged from scenicroutes

"oh my god, you’re seriously going to pay college kids $15 an hour to flip burgers? get a real job!"

scenicroutes:

a real job? you mean, like, an internship at the white house?

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okay, well what about the national democratic party?

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what about interning at the united nations?

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wow damn it’s almost like our economy functions on stealing labour from hardworking young people, regardless of whether their jobs are “real” or not

(via annie-mosity)

Reblogged from musaafer

Sometimes he’ll tell me about his college days, about an Afghanistan I have never known and very few people would believe ever existed.

"In the College of Engineering, there was this lecture hall, with seats for 1,000 students," his says as eyes begin to get bigger. "At the end of the lecture, the seats would move. The whole auditorium would shift as you spun along the diameter. The engineering of the building itself was very interesting." He continues to describe the construction details, then sighs. "I wonder if it’s still around?"

There is a pause. For 25 years I have tried to fill that silence, but I have never quite figured out what to say. I guess silence goes best there. He is the next one to speak. “You see, even your old-aged father was once part of something important.”

When he says things like that I want to scream. I don’t want to believe that the years can beat away at you like that. I don’t want to know that if enough time passes, you begin to question what was real or who you are. I am unconcerned with what the world thinks of him, but it is devastating to know that he at times thinks less of himself.

We are the same, but we are separated. People don’t see him in me. I wish they would. I walk in with a doctor’s white coat or a suit or my Berkeley sweatshirt and jeans. High heels or sneakers, it doesn’t matter, people always seem impressed with me. “Pediatrician, eh?” they say. “Well, good for you.”

I wonder what people see when they look at him. They don’t see what I see in his smile. Perhaps they see a brown man with a thick accent; perhaps they think, another immigrant cabdriver. Or perhaps it is much worse: Maybe he is a profile-matched terrorist, aligned with some axis of evil. “Another Abd-ool f——-g foreigner,” I once heard someone say.

Sometimes the worst things are not what people say to your face or what they say at all, it is the things that are assumed. I am in line at the grocery store, studying at a cafe, on a plane flying somewhere.

"Her English is excellent; she must have grown up here," I hear a lady whisper. "But why on earth does she wear that thing on her head?"

"Oh, that’s not her fault," someone replies. "Her father probably forces her to wear that."

I am still searching for a quick, biting response to comments like that. The trouble is that things I’d like to say aren’t quick. So I say nothing. I want to take their hands and pull them home with me. Come, meet my father. Don’t look at the wrinkles; don’t look at the scars; don’t mind the hearing aid, or the thick accent. Don’t look at the world’s effect on him; look at his effect on the world. Come into my childhood and hear the lullabies, the warm hand on your shoulder on the worst of days, the silly jokes on mundane afternoons. Come meet the woman he has loved and respected his whole life; witness the confidence he has nurtured in his three daughters. Stay the night; hear his footsteps come in at midnight after a long day’s work. That sound in the middle of the night is his head bowing in prayer although he is exhausted. Granted, the wealth is gone and the legacy unknown, but look at what the bombs did not destroy. Now tell me, am I really oppressed? The question makes me want to laugh. Now tell me, is he really the oppressor? The question makes me want to cry.

At times, I want to throw it all away: the education, the opportunities, the potential. I want to slip into the passenger seat of his cab and say: This is who I am. If he is going to be labeled, then give me those labels too. If you are going to look down on him, than you might as well peer down on me as well. Close this gap. Erase this line. There is no differentiation here. Of all the things I am, of all the things I could ever be, I will never be prouder than to say that I am of him.

I am this cabdriver’s daughter.

A pediatrician takes pride in her Afghan cabdriver father

It’s been four years and this piece still moves me to tears every time. 

(via musaafer)

(via grungeisde4d)

Reblogged from lordofthewolves

ottoreal:

"Let her speak when we get to the black topics."

Why does this not have a Billion notes!!!!!!

(Source: lordofthewolves, via weather-the-sunny-day)

Reblogged from wonderfulsenses
Reblogged from whyprofessorwhy

PLEASE SPREAD THIS LIKE WILD FIRE

whyprofessorwhy:

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Shit happened to Ferguson is happening in Hong Kong right now!

Students were just protesting peacefully for genuine democracy around Admiralty and Central, yet the police forced used pepper spray, tear gas and violence to disperse the crowd. According to the protesters, the police even raided a first aid booth with pepper spray.

Sign the White House Petition

Join Overseas Events

(via art-is-spirituality-in-drag)

Reblogged from pileofmonkeys

nezua:

pileofmonkeys:

I have waited tables. I’ve worked in bars. You know who tips well? The working poor, the lower middle class, and people who work or have worked in service industries. You know who tips shitty or not at all? Rich people, upper middle class people, and privileged fuckers who use their “moral opposition” to tipping to be cheap assholes. 

truth. the poor are the most generous.

(via annie-mosity)

Reblogged from etsyifyourenasty