Why is everyone freaking out about Thomas’ posting twitter bios? i mean he’s been doing this for a while… why is everyone hating on him now for doing it?
If you’ve been following Thomas you know he has a very offbeat sense of humor and tweets the craziest shit that never makes sense. But i don’t think he’d been doing this to be mocking or condescending. As shown by this tweet here that he Favorited, i think he just likes to tweet his followers bios because he thinks its interesting what we put put into them. and It makes a lot of them happy as you can see by these tweets X, X, X, X,
i don’t believe he means any harm by posting these twitter bios. and saying he’s a disgusting human being and needs to be fired seem to be a little extreme to me….
Quick reminder, that we often try to catch up with some super artist that isn’t even real. You know, that one who can do absolutely anything, learnt it within a week, doesn’t need any sleep and is working on like a hundred successful projects at the same time. We’re being all sad and frustrated because we think we’re no good compared to that one super artist. But then, who is?
Bellamy Blake + Guns
I don’t want anything from him
except his red apple heart.
Something I can bite into quickly
without making a mess.
If you asked him,
he’d claim he’s never met anyone
kinder, so please don’t say anything
All I want from him is his love.
The fruit of it. The sweet stuff.
All I want is to keep it inside of me
and then move along, because
I don’t like being touched more
than I liked being looked at.
Is it so terrible that I want
to be bigger than him? That I
don’t want to want more than
I need from a person?
I don’t think that’s bad, but
people keep telling me to
apologize for chewing with my
mouth open, so what am
I supposed to do with a whole
heart in there?
How am I going to eat it quietly?
Just give me the thing with no
hands so that I can go to sleep
without them around my neck.
I don’t want the body of love
like I used to. I don’t want to
Well, maybe I do, but not now.
When I close my eyes, I’m a statue
that he wants to run his tongue over.
When I close my eyes, I cut it off
and keep it.
He is taking a course on Marxist ideology.
He says, “The only real solution is to smash the system and start again.”
His thumb is caressing the most bourgeois copy of the communist manifesto that I have ever seen,
He bought it at Barnes and Noble for twenty-nine U.S. American dollars and ninety-nine cents,
Its hard cover shows a dark man with a scarved face
Waving a gigantic red flag against a fictional smoky background.
The matte finish is fucking gorgeous.
He wants to be congratulated for paying Harvard sixty thousand dollars
To teach him that the system is unfair.
He pulls his iPhone from his imported Marino wool jacket, and leaves.
What people can’t possibly tell from the footage on TV
Is that the water cannon feels like getting whipped with a burning switch.
Where I come from, they fill it with sewer water and hope that they get you in the face with your mouth open
So that the hepatitis will keep you in bed for the next protest.
What you can’t tell from Harvard square,
Is that when the tear gas bursts from nowhere to everywhere all at once,
It scrapes your insides like barbed wire, sawing at your lungs.
Tear gas is such a benign term for it,
If you have never breathed it in you would think it was a nostalgic experience.
What you can’t learn at Barnes and Noble,
Is that when they rush you, survival is to run,
I am never as fast as when the police are chasing me.
I know what happens to women in the holding cells down there and yet…
We still do it.
I inherited my communist manifesto,
It has no cover—
Because my mother ripped it off when she hid it in the dust jacket of “Don Quixote”
The day before the soldiers destroyed her apartment,
Looking for subversive propaganda.
She burned the cover, could not bring herself to burn the pages,
Hoped to God the soldiers couldn’t read,
They never found it.
So she was not killed for it, but her body bore the scars of the torture chamber,
For wanting her children to have a better life than she did,
Don’t talk to me about revolution.
I know what the price of smashing the system really is, my people already tried that.
The price of uprise is paid in blood,
And not Harvard blood.
The blood that ran through the streets of Santiago,
The blood thrown alive from Argentine helicopters into the Atlantic.
It is easy to say “revolution” from the comfort of a New England library.
It is easy to offer flesh to the cause,
When it is not yours to give.
Catalina Ferro, “Manifesto” (via dialecticsof)
I feel like people do need to remember that there is a very real, very painful, very human element to the word “revolution”.
Apparently it’s not socially acceptable for a man to invite another man out just for coffee or to go out for a meal, in case it’s perceived as a date. Like it’s fine if you wanna go to the pub and drink beer and have a chat but make it non-alcoholic and suddenly you’re not straight anymore? You can go to the cinema together but ONLY if it’s an action movie. You guys can’t even just go shopping with each other. Oh masculinity, so fragile, so strange.