Bouvre

I'm so fucking ripPED on caffeine and cruSHED UP ADVIL UP MY NOSE LETS TAKE THESE KIDS TO FUCKING SCHOOL

Join my banging in the walls; it'll tire you out to sleep.

This is the sort of review I honestly expect of it.

Star Wars: The Force Awakens considered doing the same thing for most of the months leading up to its release. It's commonly seen as an "element of surprise" approach to a box-office weekend opening.

Not really. I cheat by using my thumb on the low E string. Good ol' long fingers. This response was incredibly late.

God bless this is so much fun. What a well-deserved win!

Poetry isn't wildly popular, but rarely does somebody leave the American education system not liking any poems at all. What are some of your favorites? What do you like about them? Any poems you like that you don't know why you like them? One of my favorites is Robert Penn Warren's "True Love", which seems to tell a story more through perspective and implication of events, than it does through the events itself. Warren steadily moves through known and unknown variables of a beautiful woman and the story of her family. It also does an amazing job of moving in and out of the memory itself, juggling the word choice and voice of the speaker as a child, and their more knowing, ominous but abstract observations. In silence the heart raves. It utters words Meaningless, that never had A meaning. I was ten, skinny, red-headed, Freckled. In a big black Buick, Driven by a big grown boy, with a necktie, she sat In front of the drugstore, sipping something Through a straw. There is nothing like Beauty. It stops your heart. It Thickens your blood. It stops your breath. It Makes you feel dirty. You need a hot bath. I leaned against a telephone pole, and watched. I thought I would die if she saw me. How could I exist in the same world with that brightness? Two years later she smiled at me. She Named my name. I thought I would wake up dead. Her grown brothers walked with the bent-knee Swagger of horsemen. They were slick-faced. Told jokes in the barbershop. Did no work. Their father was what is called a drunkard. Whatever he was he stayed on the third floor Of the big white farmhouse under the maples for twenty-five years. He never came down. They brought everything up to him. I did not know what a mortgage was. His wife was a good, Christian woman, and prayed. When the daughter got married, the old man came down wearing An old tail coat, the pleated shirt yellowing. The sons propped him. I saw the wedding. There were Engraved invitations, it was so fashionable. I thought I would cry. I lay in bed that night And wondered if she would cry when something was done to her. The mortgage was foreclosed. That last word was whispered. She never came back. The family Sort of drifted off. Nobody wears shiny boots like that now. But I know she is beautiful forever, and lives In a beautiful house, far away. She called my name once. I didn’t even know she knew it.

Stunning tricks of lighting/cinematography throughout The Night of The Hunter, but this scene, and the final line of this scene delivered by Lillian Gish, provide an incredibly strong point of tension nearing the climax of the film.

Try new things. Getting upset over a particular act or position, when there's so much stuff out there to do, seems silly to me. Maybe if it's the only way you can get your kicks, but that seems like there's a different dilemma to address.

Hell yeah.

I've signed waivers on more than one occasion for hot sauce

Oh... that's what 'gay' is? Guess I'll be returning these louboutins and voiding this visa.

"And they called unto Lot, and said unto him, Where are the men which came in to thee this night? bring them out unto us, that we may know them." or as the NIV translates it: They called to Lot, "Where are the men who came to you tonight? Bring them out to us so that we can have sex with them."

I was going to say Method Man but it looks like you beat me to it.

I've known two. It was the eighth day, following the issue of my uncleanliness.

What kind of essay was it?

Late to the thread, but these are pretty damned incredible.

Keep the characters in mind, specifically what they want, and what they need emotionally. Then work on how the scene develops those wants and needs.

Gotcha. Funny enough, my struggle to say things is partially what led me to poetry: a frustration of the disconnect between thought and language, or thing and language, but the necessity of language because... well, what else we got? However, I disagree with the idea that any text has independence, or that poetry specifically requires participation when prose doesn't. Not to say that it's possible that a text has a specific reason it was written, but the meaning of a book requires an audience to receive it, and sometimes an audience misconstrues or warps whatever was intended, and that warped reception becomes the popular interpretation. In fact, you'll find a lot of folks who argue that the author's intention means absolutely nothing, and is powerless in creating what becomes the meaning of their work. For example, what place does Alice in Wonderland hold culturally for much of the English-speaking world? How much of that cultural position looks anything like Carroll's conservative lampoon of emerging trends in 19th century mathematics? Not that Carroll's lampoon doesn't mean anything, but the story has certainly lived as long as it has because it obtained new meanings and significance. Poetry's structure does carry a lot of importance. Sometimes the line breaks are for tension. Sometimes a piece rambles on with trivial information to delay the impact of its later lines (which is still tension, but more focused on time than sound). Sometimes it forms an argument (much like Hass and Pinsky's discursive work in the 80s, or early sonnets). But the delivery and presentation of a poem is not unlike how and when we receive information in prose, or who's telling the story and what kind of limitations and distance is exploited by the point-of-view. A good story is often good as it is because of how it's told, and how it's told can contribute to meaning.

Congratulations! Also your kid is adorable.

This is my plush husky's travel/adventure instagram that my husband and I run: https://www.instagram.com/bbg_travels/

I'm sort of the same way. I'll hold a baby if I'm sitting, or willing to kneel and play with the child on the floor, but very rarely am I willing to handle a baby otherwise.

Was she? My reasons: I didn't make a fast enough move on her. I came out as gay to her. We were moving, geographically, in opposite directions, several thousand miles. I only thought I was being dumped because I was finally getting some from my crush. Turns out I was his hookup.

It's a common line of thought. But no. Because I avoid holding babies. I don't feel qualified enough to keep a child secure.

I think I know what you mean by "a function of mystery," but would it be all right if you elaborated? I'm in agreement with pretty much everything here, at least in terms of what works for me in poetry (the craft as expression of emotion, as opposed to the expression of emotion as craft). I'm definitely a fan of lyrical prose, too. And so much of what I've learned about the rhythm of writing fiction came from poetry.