please god i’m only 17 please god help me please give blood please give please god please give me money please god make me a stone please get a newer subversion client please go all the way please god help me find a job
“Serve me” a poem by Google.
serve Merlot warm or cold serve Merlot serve me here serve meaning serve media to ps3 serve me well serve me right to suffer lyrics serve meatballs with serve me right to suffer tab
"What does it mean" a poem by Google.
what does it mean when your eye twitches what does it mean when your poop is green what does it mean when you dream about someone what does it mean to poke someone on facebook what does it mean when your poop floats what does it mean when you dream about being pregnant what does it mean when your poop is black what does it mean when you dream about snakes what does it mean when your nose itches what does it mean to be an american
I’ve buried my Asianness. Like the only reason that any stranger would have had to believe that I’ve got Japanese blood in me, on impact, was my darker hair. Like I’d tell people I’m half-Japanese and they’d squint their eyes and size up my pudgy frame and white skin and big round eyes and go, “Oh… Oh, yeah, I can totally see it. Like in your hair.”
Except my mom’s hair is black-black and thick like book pages, and what sits—well, sat—atop my head is my dad’s spun-fine, spot-cowlicked brown. So what you were seeing was centuries of American melting pot, blended so thin that the only way I know to refer to my white background is “Okie and northern Midwest,” and that’s only going back a generation or two.
And my physical Asianness has always been buried anyway. It sits underneath the freckled face and pudgy torso—and I mean “underneath” laterally. Not even layers: parts. It sits in the lower half of my body, in my baby feet, in the muscular structure (as a physical therapist once told me) of my short, stumpy legs. Somehow, the legs passed onto me from southern Japanese field workers support the weight of my rounded, heavy, indulgent upper half. Maybe it’s the lowered center of gravity. Maybe it’s biological miracles.
And maybe the blond is just the expected chemical reaction when peroxide meets pigments. Maybe I forged this crown on my own. Maybe I’ll say what I want, because I know what I’m made of.
“Designers aren’t designing clothes to make women look good, they’re picking women to make their designs look good… Too many of us have bought into the idea that we have to fit the clothes, rather than the clothes fitting us.”—Sidibe’s Designer States The Obvious: “It’s All About Picking The Right Silhouette For Her Shape” (Jezebel.com)