Quote about life and what it to become yourself, by Joyce Carol Oates.
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TALES FROM THE CUBE | Einstein’s Revenge
i am scared shitless of a few things when it comes to design, the 2 biggest being: pixelation & copyright infringement. Tell me i have terminal cancer, it would probably get a more positive response from me than if you were to tell me i was losing my job for using an image i didn’t have rights to.
WTF MOMENT | OMG ?
OMG! LOL! The venerable Oxford English Dictionary approves of the three-letter, Internet-inspired expressions you use for “Oh, my God!” and “Laughing out loud.” It is adding them to the authoritative reference book’s latest online update. You can now text the news to your BFF. That’s…
FACEBOOK VS. MYSPACE
facebook vs. myspace? no, i think that battle’s pretty much over, especially after finding this post asking the question, “Should Myspace Die Already?” apparently, Myspace laid off a LOT of employees recently, & they’re considering shutting it down as a whole. in my opinion, i’m…
The sight of that cemetery still gave Frank nightmares. Hoping to find jewelry buried with the dead, the Yankee soldiers had broken open vaults, dug up graves. They had robbed the bodies, stripped from the coffins gold and silver name plates, silver trimmings and silver handles. The skeletons and corpses, flung helter-skelter among their splintered caskets, lay exposed and so pitiful.
For a moment, her heart stood still and then a queer fear, stronger than anxiety, stronger than grief, began to beat in her breast. It can’t be true, she thought vehemently, trying to push back the fear. Doctors make mistakes. I won’t think it’s true. I can’t let myself think it’s true. I’ll scream if I do. I must think of something else.
And you do come out of it, that’s true. After a year, after five. But you don’t come out of it like a train coming out of a tunnel, bursting through the downs into sunshine and that swift, rattling descent to the Channel; you come out of it as a gull comes out of an oil-slick. You are tarred and feathered for life.
— Julian Barnes, Flaubert’s Parrot
