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Perge Scellus Diem Perficias // kelited@gmail.com / @EdwardJohn

The Art of Day Drinking

As Kingsley Amis taught us, drinking is good because it enables us to become our nighttime selves.  The good Doctor Jekyll knew what transformative powers an elixir can have, though I think that K. Amis was aiming more at the feeling one gets when the evening is close at hand, the first bottle is uncorked, and the toil of the day seems suddenly like a memory from last week.  Bruce Wayne and his alter ego always occupied the same corpus simultaneously but when he dons the cape and cowl, a powerful metamorphosis takes place.

Of course, veteran drinker James Bond knew better than to wear a dinner suit before 6pm.  He’s not a farmer.  And while not every primate can emerge as strikingly from the surf as Mr. Craig can, day drinking is pleasing because it enables one to glide through the sunlight in a frame of mind usually reserved for Saturday night.  It allows you to become your nighttime self while the sun is up.

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someauthorgirl:

vixyish:

solarbird:

xgenepositive:

mmmahogany:

#john barrowman is having none of your misogynist bullshit

i love that barrowman’s response also distances him from the contestant
"hahahaha women do laundry right john?  you with me, john?"
"don’t lump me in with you, you fucking martian”

This is what I’m talking about when I keep saying that men have to deny the endorsement. This guy wanted Barrowman’s tacit support or agreement for his sexism, as part of bonding through humour. John went nope.

Bolding mine.

I hope I live long enough to attain even a tenth of Barrowman’s “you fucking martian” face.

(Source: kaniehtiio, via thebicker)

benpaddon:

The phrase “words to live by” gets thrown around often these days, but these are absolutely words to live by.

(Source: c-mines, via lizarts)

For I Am a Man

thejournalofbisonjack:

.
In a dirt alley shaped by decay and weeds, 

a young black woman wearing a yellow dress 

and white high heels, walked ahead of me.

Across her shoulder was a sleeping baby.

Hanging from her arm, a used shopping 

bag filed with diapers and toys, She was 

dragging a purple suitcase. Mud clung to 

its wheels as though it didn’t want her to go.

When she noticed me I smiled and tried to 

make a face that suggested she had nothing 

to fear from me. But, why should she believe 

me I thought—for I am a man, and she has 

seen that face before.