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I swear to every heaven ever imagined,
if I hear one more dead-eyed hipster
tell me that art is dead, I will personally summon Shakespeare
from the grave so he can tell them every reason
why he wishes he were born in a time where
he could have a damn Gmail account.
The day after I taught my mother
how to send pictures over Iphone she texted
me a blurry image of our cocker spaniel ten times in a row.
Don’t you dare try to tell me that that is not beautiful.
But whatever, go ahead and choose to stay in
your backwards-hoping-all-inclusive club
while the rest of us fall in love over Skype.
Send angry letters to state representatives,
as we record the years first sunrise so
we can remember what beginning feels like when
we are inches away from the trigger.
Lock yourself away in your Antoinette castle
while we eat cake and tweet to the whole universe that we did.
Hashtag you’re a pretentious ass hole.
Van Gogh would have taken 20 selflies a day.
Sylvia Plath would have texted her lovers
nothing but heart eyed emojis when she ran out of words.
Andy Warhol would have had the worlds weirdest Vine account,
and we all would have checked it every morning while we
Snap Chat our coffee orders to the people
we wish were pressed against our lips instead of lattes.
This life is spilling over with 85 year olds
rewatching JFK’s assassination and
7 year olds teaching themselves guitar over Youtube videos.
Never again do I have to be afraid of forgetting
what my fathers voice sounds like.
No longer must we sneak into our families phonebook
to look up an eating disorder hotline for our best friend.
No more must I wonder what people in Australia sound like
or how grasshoppers procreate.
I will gleefully continue to take pictures of tulips
in public parks on my cellphone
and you will continue to scoff and that is okay.
But I hope, I pray, that one day you will realize how blessed
you are to be alive in a moment where you can google search
how to say I love you in 164 different languages.
b.e.fitzgerald (Art is a Facebook status about your winter break.)

Book Vs Movie - Divergent by Veronica Roth



I’m starting a new post format—YA books compared to their movie adaptations! Click “Read More” to check out my review of the Divergent film and the book below.


Beatrice is turning sixteen, and she has a difficult choice to make: should she choose to remain with her family in Abnegation, the faction of the selfless and helpful where she has never truly fit in, or join one of the other factions that make up their post-war society, and leave behind her family forever?

She hopes that the aptitude test will tell her where she really belongs, but her results only make things worse. Beatrice is Divergent—she has an equal aptitude for several factions, which is as good as saying she doesn’t really belong in any. Beatrice doesn’t really understand what Divergent means, but she knows one thing for sure.

Divergent is dangerous.

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Heir Apparent by Vivian Vande Velde




Giannine Bellisario has just turned fourteen; to celebrate, she decides to use the gift certificate her father has given her—even though she knows that his secretary was the one who actually bought it, $50 to spend at the Rasmussem Gaming Center, a virtual reality arcade where Giannine can play a variety of total-immersion games, is nothing to sneeze at.

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My AP Psych teacher from high school keeps binders and notebooks with dicks drawn on them to use as visual aids for the Freudian unit.

One time she did this life changing little “experiment” where she ever so calmly asked guys why they draw penises on things. They tried to say “it’s just funny” or “you don’t understand” and she just kept saying “you’re right, I don’t understand. Explain to me. You already know what a penis looks like, why do you have to draw it on things? Are you marking it? Are you tagging it? Girls don’t draw vaginas on things.” And the guys suddenly started questioning their motives for everything they do and one guy was like “ms, stop talking about penises, you’re making us uncomfortable.” And she shouted “HOW DO YOU THINK WE FEEL SEEING DICKS DRAWN ON STUFF ALL THE TIME?”

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