My little sister Julia (bottom two photos) is a junior in high school. I think she looks like a young Yvonne Strahovski. Did you know that Yvonne’s original surname was Strzechowski? She’s Polish, just like little Julia & me, which is probably one of the reasons that she and Julika look similar.

Things that freak me out: Julia is seventeen, and which means that I’m just about twenty-one, and shouldn’t I have my life figured out by now, and by God if I hear, “What’s a nice, pretty girl like you doing without a boyfriend? You don’t have too much time left!” one more time I might just build an Intersect so I can download it and kick some ass, and of course I have time left (Jesus! I just started this decade of my life), but more importantly why can’t people understand that I’m not a people person: I truly am happiest when I’m on my own?

In the end, it’s thoughts like this that are going to hurt my mother, and that’s the last thing I want to do.

Julia’s tumblr.

I promised to edit an essay for my little sister by tomorrow, which is why I was digging through the documents saved onto my computer. I found her essay, but I also found a word document called “writing in Poland,” with about ten unfinished pieces from my holidays. I had already forgotten it. Was I really visiting my family in Poland only three weeks ago?

It’s probably not a good idea to publish it, but I’m so sleep-deprived I don’t care. Here is something of a journal entry that made me particularly sad to read, and not just because I referred to myself in the third person.

Kasia had forgotten how to write. Not logistically, of course. She still knew her alphabet. She knew how to hold a pen to paper. And she knew how to type on a computer. And she hadn’t forgotten how to write everything. She could still write a mean essay and a damn good journalism article.     

But there was a reason that she wanted to study English in the first place, and that was because she wanted to be a writer. The kind of writer who knows creativity, and can write a story that sucks the reader into a different world and then lingers in the reader’s mind for days, months, and years afterward. And this was what she had forgotten.

That’s probably why she hadn’t updated her study abroad blog for a while, and was focusing instead on her original tumblelog, typing up personal posts about New Years’ resolutions and pop culture analyses.  It wasn’t that she didn’t have the impulse to write, because she certainly did. And writing these dinky little articles not only came to her as naturally as tying her shoe, but she enjoyed it greatly too. Crafting each sentence, picking the right words. Making clever jokes here and there. It was great fun for her to write. But she could no longer write a story.

She didn’t know how to end this story, for instance. So she sat there, on a crowded bus, staring at the Polish dude on the television screen who was instructing passengers that gambling was strictly prohibited on the 15-hour ride.

She didn’t know how to end this story.

newyorker:

Screen Shot; Lana Del Rey’s fixed image

In the fifteen songs on “Born to Die,” Del Rey is both theatrical and noncommittal. But the new album does not make “Lana Del Rey aka Lizzy Grant” seem like an error that needed redacting. The earlier work had a variety of tempos, styles, and moods, which may be exactly why Del Rey ditched it; its song titles hinted at a notion of going retro (“Put Me in a Movie,” “Mermaid Motel”), but the ungainly album title revealed ambivalence about Grant’s identity. “Born to Die,” by contrast, is a model of consistent branding. The string section thrums in permanent lassitude, the number of beats per minute hovers in the eighties, and Del Rey’s pliable, smoky voice suggests that nothing is a problem, including the narrative contradictions that she plants throughout the album.

Several demos were leaked before the album’s release, and they played with faster tempos and guitars and more aggressive sounds. All of that is gone. The lack of active rhythms was a wise correction by somebody: Del Rey is often at a loss when mobile—she won’t be challenging Beyoncé to a dance-off anytime soon—but she’s fairly compelling when simply looking into a camera and declaiming. Anyone crouching on the Internet, ready to tag Del Rey’s mistakes, will be frustrated by “Born to Die,” which is too expert to register as a failure.

- In next week’s issue, Sasha Frere-Jones writes about (online now) Lana Del Rey and her new album, “Born to Die”: http://nyr.kr/wVJBFW

helloyoucreatives:

How to make a viral video.

This is pretty much an average day in my life, so.

(via googoogoojoob)

Everybody hates you. Everybody wishes that you were dead. Peter you suck. Peter you suck. Peter your music is fucking terrible. Peter you suck, Peter you suck. You don’t do anything of value. Peter you suck. Go write some music. But instead you sit and write these bullshit songs. It’s so self-loathing. Go see a psychiatrist. I hate the psychiatrist. Go see one anyway. I’M NOT GOING.

And now, back to my regularly scheduled non-political reblogging of gpoys and gifs. Just for the record, Jason Segel is probably my ideal guy. Tall, kind, and goofy.

(via molriarty)

barackobama:

If you missed the president’s State of the Union last night, here’s what we’re internally referring to as “the kick-ass section.” Watch the rest of the speech and get an overview of the key points here.

I need you to know that Obama’s tumblr has tagged this as #kicking ass. I’m really proud of America right now.

Tina Fey & Amy Poehler circa I don’t know when but judging on that outfit of yours, Poehler, 2002. You dumb faces, I hate you.

In other news: Did you know the names Amy Pond and Amy Poehler share the same first five letters? Because it’s true.

(via bossypants)