On her early days in Los Angeles: “I was very lonely. I would find cats in the street and take them with me. I raised a lot of cats in that period.”
say my name/cry me a river (mashup) | the neighbourhood | bbc radio 1 live lounge late
Leaving is not enough. You must stay gone. Train your heart like a dog. Change the locks even on the house he’s never visited. You lucky, lucky girl. You have an apartment just your size. A bathtub full of tea. A heart the size of Arizona, but not nearly so arid. Don’t wish away your cracked past, your crooked toes, your problems are papier mache puppets you made or bought because the vendor at the market was so compelling you just had to have them. You had to have him. And you did. And now you pull down the bridge between your houses, you make him call before he visits, you take a lover for granted, you take a lover who looks at you like maybe you are magic. Make the first bottle you consume in this place a relic. Place it on whatever altar you fashion with a knife and five cranberries. Don’t lose too much weight. Stupid girls are always trying to disappear as revenge. And you are not stupid. You loved a man with more hands than a parade of beggars, and here you stand. Heart like a four-poster bed. Heart like a canvas. Heart leaking something so strong they can smell it in the street.
I said perhaps Patagonia, and pictured
a peninsula, wide enough
for a couple of ladderback chairs
to wobble on at high tide. I thought
of us in breathless cold, facing
a horizon round as a coin, looped
in a cat’s cradle strung by gulls
from sea to sun. I planned to wait
till the waves had bored themselves
to sleep, till the last clinging barnacles,
growing worried in the hush,
had paddled off in tiny coracles, till
those restless birds, your actor’s hands,
had dropped slack into your lap,
until you’d turned, at last, to me.
When I spoke of Patagonia, I meant
skies all empty aching blue. I meant
years. I meant all of them with you.
you and I
are not about poems or
other sentimental bullshit
but I have to tell you
even the way
you drink your coffee
knocks me the fuck out.
a self love mix; or jams for pounding pavement whilst marvelling how much better you are than everyone else. grab it here.
i. how you like me now + the heavy | ii. paper planes (dfa remix) + m.i.a. | iii. we don’t care + kanye west | iv. can’t hold us + macklemore | v. right hand hi + kid sister | vi. look at these hoes + santigold | vii. i am the best + 2NE1 | viii. thinking of you + ke$ha | ix. all i do is win + dj khaled
Talk about a handsome couple!
Amy Poehler after Bill Clinton took the stage
Mr. & Mrs. Darcy 30 years later
You know, equality is a myth, and for some reason, everyone accepts the fact that women don’t make as much money as men do. I don’t understand that. Why do we have to take a backseat? I truly believe that women should be financially independent from their men. And let’s face it, money gives men the power to run the show. It gives men the power to define value. They define what’s sexy. And men define what’s feminine. It’s ridiculous.
‘But I think people still think that I’m like my character, or that because I like girly things and I have a lilt in my voice that I’m dumb. But I don’t think you can be dumb and write a big chunk of a TV show. I think of myself as a smart and funny person, but I am very girly, and in the past I’ve been hurt by people who criticise me for liking things they think are beneath me, like shopping or whatever, and the people who give me the hardest time about it are women. I think it may be because there are so few women in comedy and so there’s a feeling that we shouldn’t sell women out, but I don’t see talking about fashion as selling women out’ -
Mindy Kaling, interview for The Guardian