Kellyanne Conway can teach us something about promotion. Yeah, it’s nuts. Watching her try to plug Ivanka’s awful clothes last week made my skin crawl. It wasn’t just unethical. It was so far off the mark, and pathetic, that the show hosts were cringing. They tried to stop her. They warned her. Yet, she persisted.
Funny how many writers and artists have tried the same move. A few years ago, I watched a friend of mine on the local news. He was talking about his first novel. Great for him. It was a nice chat, but then he did something stupid as hell. He tried to guilt the co-hosts into buying his book on air. They asked how his book was doing, and he said, “Well I’m hoping to sell you two and the camera man one each right after the show.” Automatic facepalm. I had to take a shower on his behalf. And I had just taken one. That’s how bad it went over.
A few weeks later, a bunch of friends and I were getting drunk at a bar. A book festival was in town. Instant excuse to behave badly. Authors came and went. They told funny stories. They flirted. They gave advice. Midway through our happy hour, someone we didn’t like showed up. She talked about her writing for several minutes, killed the conversation, and then passed around bookmarks. Everyone just nodded politely. When she left, we threw them away.
Source: Yes, It’s Really Me, Your Manic Pixie Dream Girl ‹ Thought Catalog ‹ Reader — WordPress.com
If that doesn’t work, try this link.
Has anyone ever dated a real manic pixie dream girl, or even close? I’m sure that sometimes I come off like this. I’m strange. I think and say weird or sometimes poetic things. I do strange things. I’ll stay up all night if I feel like it, and drink when I want to. And I’ve managed to find a job that’s a strange blend of freedom and hyper-responsibility. But I’ve never shopped for groceries barefoot, at least not that I can remember. Gross. I think a lot of people can find someone attractive for flouting certain social conventions. Not giving a fuck can be sexy. Maybe that’s part of the real personality type behind this trope.
The old school tech in “Rogue One” seemed curious to me when I watched it. Questions kept lingering in the back of my head about how their information was stored, how much trouble the heroes went through to obtain and transmit data, etc. In a lot of ways, the entire plot wouldn’t work in today’s age–when we have to worry about hackers interfering in everything, including elections. These days, “Rogue One” happens with drones and computer nerds. No need for epic battles. Alas, not a great recipe for an action movie. Could you imagine watching someone steal Death Star plans by spending all night in front of their computer and drinking a six-pack of Red Bull? Nope. That’s more like an episode of “Big Bang Theory.” But that didn’t bother me, per se. It seemed very intentional. In fact, I liked Rogue One’s aesthetic approach much more than the all the fancy CGI and slick glamour of Episodes I, II and III.Those films were trying too hard. Disney seems to have listened to hardcore Star Wars fans, who want a rough and gritty backdrop. This article raises some of the same questions. Fun read:
Source: Why the Technology in ‘Rogue One’ Is So Old-Fashioned – The Atlantic
Dating isn’t easy on girls with Asperger’s. Flirting and romance are all about subtlety and nuance. Some people with this condition, or autism, might miss your little hints completely when you’re hitting on them. With me, it’s more like I overthink things into oblivion. I’ve completely missed when cute guys were interested, but I’ve also been overwhelmed with the number of possible ways to interpret gestures, facial expressions, and conversation cues that most people readily identify as flirting. I can identify a song by the first three notes from two blocks away even against traffic noise. But I can’t tell if you like me or not until you grab my ass and say, “Let’s fuck.”
For example, two or three times at different parties guys would ask, “So do you have a boyfriend?”
I would say, “Not right now, but I’m looking. Maybe that guy over there. He’s glancing at me like he might be interested. What do you think?”
Friends often pulled me aside at these parties and said things like, “What are you doing? That hot guy is really into you, and you’re blowing it big time.”
Then I’d say, “Ohhhhh.” And if I hadn’t ruined things too much, I would try to act more like girls I’d seen on TV.
Twice my freshmen year, guys directly asked me out, and I laughed at them. I thought they were joking because they were smiling and acting sort of silly. I honestly thought smiling and laughing when you asked someone out meant you were telling a joke. Granted, those kinds of jokes never made much sense to me. But few jokes did. So I just assumed I was missing something. Awkward. Maybe one day I’ll call up some of those guys and ask them what they really thought about me back then.
Recently, I decided to take the Autism Spectrum Quotient. Because I’m really fucking weird. Things that don’t bother other people can drive me to a near meltdown. Dogs barking in my building. People tapping their pens. Happy jerks whistling somewhere on campus. I can even hear my downstairs neighbor’s footsteps. My boyfriend hears them faintly when he turns off the television and concentrates extremely hard. But to my brain, it sounds like our neighbor is intentionally stomping as hard as he can just to piss me off. I can practically feel the walls and floorboards vibrate through the air. I’m not lying when I say I’ve considered going down there with pepper spray to make a point.
And it’s not just our current neighbors. At the last two apartments I’ve lived in, I’ve had conflicts with neighbors because I could hear every single thing they did. Opening cabinets. Closing doors. Footsteps. Mumbled conversations. Yes, fucking too. (I actually don’t mind the latter much.) There’s only one respite: when I slip in my earbuds and blast some white noise, or heavy metal, or Bjork.
I’ve also never socialized well. Plus, I’m terse. Most people don’t think I like them at first. Sometimes I make people cry without meaning to.
Recently, I’ve been reflecting on prior work experience and thought I’d share some insights about summer programs for gifted youngsters. Sorry, I’m not talking about X-Men. If you want to leave now, go ahead.
Let’s fade back a year or two, a recent summer. I’m on the phone with one of those moms. You know, the kind who can’t shut up about her genius son. His IQ. His college plans. His potential. What I can’t tell her is how much I’d like to drive this little jackass out to the woods and leave him there for the vultures. Earlier this week, I had to escort him around campus because he was switching from a lower-level science class to an advanced one against our recommendations. He needed books and supplies. I had to pay for them with the company debit account.
So, why am I talking to this mom? Trust me, not for fun. I’m having to explain why this 14-year-old failed a college-level test. Happens all the time. Parents send their kids here hoping they’ll blow us away with their intellect. They over-estimate their kids’ abilities, and the kids suffer. I’d feel sorry for many of these kids if they weren’t such precocious little demons. Not kidding. I caught one of them jerking off in a women’s bathroom stall once.