The Lady Privateer
She pegged into the kitchen
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I had two tumblr accounts under two different email addresses like a moron, so I used to have to have them open in separate private browsing windows if I wanted to see accounts at the same time. Needless to say, that was dumb.
So I moved the Lady Privateer over to my other account as a secondary Tumblr. Kept the same address, but I’ve changed this one to theladyprivateerhasmoved.
So unfollow this one and go follow plain old theladyprivateer.tumblr.com. Byyyyyye!
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Photoset reblogged from sir dick douchepapers
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![buzzfeed:
mattchew03:
Since nobody else had, I took it upon myself to make this. #NotoriousKIM #RIPLilKim
This is the best thing that happened on Twitter over the weekend. Maybe ever.
[25 People That Thought Lil Kim Died]](http://25.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lwgms5PM9i1qzzpi4o1_500.jpg)
Since nobody else had, I took it upon myself to make this. #NotoriousKIM #RIPLilKim
This is the best thing that happened on Twitter over the weekend. Maybe ever.
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- Interviewer: As a teenager, Patti Smith and the New York punk movement inspired you. So it was jarring when I turned on the TV in 2008 and saw you driving a Bentley around the Spanish countryside with Gwyneth Paltrow and Mario Batali.
- Michael Stipe: What do you mean? Gwyneth Paltrow and Mario are the most punk-rock people I know. Are you kidding?
- Interviewer: I could maybe see Mario. But I certainly don’t see Gwyneth Paltrow as punk rock.
- Michael Stipe: Look closer.
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The upstairs neighbor is so upset he’s screaming, cursing, stamping, and, uh, crying UNCONTROLLABLY. It’d be alright if not for the foot stamping on my ceiling. Oh, and the screaming. But mainly the crying. The crying’s really getting to me.
I hate it when grown men cry, but I love it when I can hear grown men cry through the paper-thin walls of my apartment.
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Photo reblogged from The Bluth Company
Today is Michael’s birthday (according to his birth certificate). Happy Birthday, Nichael Bluth.
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In Stevens’ poetry the alphabet is either “murderous” or “fusky.” Is the comedian willing to end his art at the letter C, his head, his capital? Or conversely, may that title of Stevens’ continue to move backward to its origin, whereby art becomes co-median? The movement of the alphabet, on the one hand, may enact a sacred and sterile process that assumes a final, frozen dispensation as “heavenly script” (CP, 11).
WHAT DOES THAT MEEEEAN?
I make fun of it now, but $20 says some portion of it finds its way into my paper.
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Photo reblogged from CRACKED.com
