Anonymous asked: Kill yourself.
Anonymous asked: did you even read his article? dude had some pretty damn good points.
A. Hit me.
Q: What is today’s date.
A. September 30, 2014.
Q: Which means?
A. Tomorrow’s October and everyone needs to change their Twitter names to more Halloween-ified versions.
Q: What else.
A. It’s the last possible day for me post my dumb monthly interview thing.
Q: OK So.
A. I didn’t feel like doing it this month.
Q: Oh you didn’t feel like doing it.
A. I mean I kind of forgot.
Q: Kind of.
A. Forgot slash remembered in plenty of time but then felt like Why even bother.
Q. What’s the matter. Are you sad.
A. Yes. I’m sad.
Q. Well it sucks that you’re sad but life is sad so do your stupid interview. You set these goals for yourself for a reason.
A. I tried! I have a whole list of interviews bookmarked so I can just scroll through and choose one and cut & paste the questions and be done in like 10 minutes. But all of them seemed super dumb, and I wanted to do something more relevant to what’s been going on on the internet recently.
Q. What’s been going on on the internet recently.
A. Everything terrible.
Q. Choose one thing.
A. I thought today was going to be good. Everything was off to a great start with that news about Roxane Gay and the Butter.
A. But then there was more Ed Champion stuff.
Q. OK but we have to talk about that stuff. People feeling threatened by him and not speaking out was part of the problem, part of what allowed him to terrorize people for so long.
A. I know! It’s just: the author wrote this article for Salon and she probably meant well? I mean I assume she did. I try to always assume best intentions. but she did such a half-assed job, encouraging people to ignore him, as though ignoring abusers is likely to make them stop. And not even mentioning specific people he’d hurt, or even having first hand experience with some of what he’d said or written. It was like: is she trying to create something useful/helpful/meaningful, or is this about having produced internet content?
Q. Is that how you feel about your self-interviews? You’re just producing content?
A. Can we not make this about me.
Q. You made this about you.
A. Sometimes it just feels like: even when you try to help you do not help.
Q. Do you try to help.
A. I don’t know. I try to be an ally. I try to support my friends. I care when the people I care about are hurt or wronged. But also I feel most of the time like there’s nothing I can do. Or I’m not intelligent enough to have anything useful or thoughtful to add to the conversation. And also like maybe there’s some level where I’m part of the problem anyway. I mean I understand who I am and what I look like and what I represent.
Q. OK well I think you’re being dumb and I’m not giving you a peptalk. Some people are actually dealing with real things.
A. Also I’m sad about death, and I’m worried about my kids, and I’ve already been on this planet so long and done so little good and I feel like a pathetic waste of skin almost all the time sorry you’re making me be honest about my feelings on the internet which I don’t normally care to do.
Q. I want you to name 5 things that you like or appreciate and then I want you to go to bed.
A. 1. Tequila. I like Palomas.
2. I like how talented and inspiring my friends are. Like today Emily was talking about the new EmilyBooks on twitter, and then the Salon article came out and she went in on Laura Miller, and then a few minutes later she was talking about her cat. And I thought: that is grace.
3. I like talking about the internet with my friends IRL. Over the weekend some friends and I all shared how many tumblr followers we have and it felt illegal and delicious. Also I love talking about internet people IRL when you have to say their usernames out loud b/c their real names aren’t who they are to you and you hear how amazing and ridiculous it all is. (“taint_chakra” and “Big Titty Larper” were the names I had to say out loud in casual conversation.) Later we got to pet chickens.
4. I like writing and I like the stupid internet and I like writing on the stupid internet. It is full of problems but it is also the source of so many good things and people in my life.
5. I like that I get another shot at everything tomorrow. And I can learn and listen and fav things and be present and find ways to suck less and help more.
Q. OK. Good night.
A. Good night.
Q. Hey are you asleep.
A. No I’m looking at my phone.
Q. Can you do me a favor?
A. Spend a little more time on my interview next month?
A. Good night internet. Good night brain, good night ideas. Good night people I love.
There’s a light, seductive breeze as Harry Styles, pop star, style icon and British person steps onto the beach. The sand, so hot in the heat of the afternoon has cooled in the moonlight and Harry shivers as his toes sink in. It’s well past midnight, but the sky is clear and the moon is full, bright enough that Harry can see the ocean clearly as it laps coquettishly at the shore.
Harry plods down the beach until he reaches the edge of the water. He’s exhausted, he’s had a long day of being compared to Mick Jagger. Not that Harry Styles minds the resemblance, but he bristles at the thought of spending an entire career making era-defining music only to have his legacy be a fucking Maroon 5 song. “No thank you,” think Harry Styles. “No thank you, kindly.”
He leaves his clothes in a pile on the sand and starts confidently towards the water. It’s cold. Not freezing, but cold enough to make all four of his nipples stand erect. Meanwhile, thirty yards off shore a shark swims languidly through the turgid Atlantic waters, blissfully unaware of Harry Styles letting his just-shorn testicles hang out in the breeze.
Harry wades into the water and when it reaches his first set of nipples he stops and closes his eyes. The night is quiet, the only sound high tide’s bawdy symphony. He flips onto his back and begins to swim, staring at the stars and wishing, not for the first time, for a tail like a proper mermaid.
Harry Styles, despite being relatively aware of his surroundings for a person and extremely aware of his surroundings for a pop star, remains oblivious to the shark swimming lecherously nearby.
The shark, being a shark, has no way of knowing that the legs dangling so tantalizingly in its periphery are in any way famous or swoon worthy. Sharks, after all, don’t swoon. They sometimes get sex drunk after eating too much bloated whale carcass, but they don’t swoon.
Harry notices the shark at the same moment the shark notices him. Harry freezes, the world seems to slow down and in that moment, nothing else matters. Nothing but the 17 feet of muscle and sex swimming towards him. The shark probably would have frozen too, if it could stop swimming, which it can’t, since sharks never stop swimming. Not ever. Not even for pop stars with nice legs and luscious hair.
Remember, sharks don’t feel. They don’t get sad, they don’t fall in love and they certainly don’t totally freak out about boys. That being said, the shark starts to get a tight feeling in its stomach, its heart starts to flutter and the area around its gills flushes. If the shark had the vocabulary, it would probably say it was super nervous.
The shark swims forward with false confidence, brushing its pectoral fin sensually along Harry Styles’ belly. Harry gasps and the shark worries its been too forward. Taylor Swift probably let Harry come to her. The shark is always doing this! It is not in a shark’s nature to dwell, however, and it curves in a slow, languid loop, turning back towards Harry, who is still bobbing seductively on the surface.
This time the shark dips lower and swims towards Harry Styles, turning at the last moment so its tail flicks against Harry’s hip. Harry Styles, sex symbol, millionaire and noted banana enthusiast giggles despite himself. He thinks two can play at that game as he runs his toe suggestively along the shark’s dorsal fin.
The shark is excited. It hasn’t felt so alive since it destroyed one of Chris Fallow’s styrofoam seals in 2011. The shark knows where this is going. Harry Styles knows where this is going. There’s no need for foreplay. The shark takes one last moment to take in the sight of Harry Styles, dancer, romancer and midnight prancer, as he salaciously treads water.
Harry wonders if the sharks knows it’s beautiful. He hopes so, because he doesn’t think sharks have ears and he’s not sure how to translate his chart-topping number one songs into panicked splashing. That’s the last thought Harry Styles has before the shark sinks its teeth into his pulsing abs.
The first bite is agony, but, like, sexy agony. The shark is overwhelmed by the desire to eat him quickly, but the shark also wants to take its time. This is probably its only chance to eat Harry Styles and it’ll be damned if it doesn’t take the time to savor every moment.
Harry, for his part, is unsurprised by the turn of events. He’s amazed it took this long for a pop star to be eaten by a shark. He hopes One Direction survives without him. Niall will have to be the cute one and the sexy one now. The shark is gnawing obscenely on his hip and Harry wonders if he’s the first boy the shark has eaten. He hopes so.
It could be minutes, it could be hours, neither Harry Styles or the shark is sure, both so consumed with each other, one much more literally. The rest of the ocean fades into a background rhythm of sea water, blood and an increasing amount of bone fragments. The shark eats Harry’s heart last, because it’s symbolic and romantic and also because it tastes the best.
Harry Styles and the shark only spend 37 minutes together. Three days if you count how long it takes the shark to digest him. Three days doesn’t seem like a long time, but in shark days, it was almost seven days, a shark week.
Everyone please read this.