“Green is the warning color of the fairy world,” notes Katherine Langrish, “and has been considered unlucky right down into modern times (you should never wear green at a wedding).” Famously, the heroes of The Silver Chair are bedeviled by a Lady in a Green Kirtle, whose color pays homage to the Green Knight and suggests perilous enchantment. There is also a Scots fairy-tale, “The Fair Gruagach,” featuring a powerful sorceress known as the Dame of the Fine Green Kirtle, which Lewis may have read. In the Scots ballad “Alison Gross,” a witch transforms a young man into a great serpent by blowing three times upon a “grass-green horn.”

I’d rather drink old stagnant pond water than be asked to share a fun fact about myself in front of a group

Due to connections I found about an American product called “Grape Nuts” which is a cereal that looks gross and has nothing to do with grapes or nuts. A strange people

Ah! You see, the story is almost too perfect. The man encounters her in the museum, in front of Rothko. And what is Rothko? A black void, a red abyss, the silent scream of modernity. It is a demand for stillness, for confrontation with nothingness. And what does he do? Instead of confronting the void, he runs from it. He fills the silence with himself. He goes home, finds her blog, and writes: “we share interests, I read your post, I disagree.” Already, the act is obscene. The Rothko asks for silence, and he answers with a DM. This is the Hegelian trick. On the surface, he performs philosophy. He frames his words as serious critique. But in truth, it is abstract negation. It is like Coke Zero, you know. Disagreement without the sugar of real engagement. He does not move the thought forward, he re-presents her own words back to her, only stamped with his authority: “I disagree.” Now comes the reversal. She screenshots it. She posts it with the caption, “I am begging the men of the world to be normal.” Here, the dialectic achieves its completion. His attempt at recognition collapses into objecthood. He wanted to be interlocutor, he becomes exhibit. His seriousness is aufgehoben into comedy. He thought he was engaging in philosophy, but he is transformed into what Lacan would call the objet petit DM, the tiny kernel of humiliation now circulating in the meme economy. And this is the paradox. The message was never private. Every DM already carries within it the possibility of its public unveiling. The truth of the DM is not in what it says, but in what it becomes. By posting it, she does not betray the interaction. She reveals it. The Rothko was the warning. The void demanded contemplation. He could not endure it. He rushed to fill it with pseudo-philosophy. And so his words fell into the same abyss, only to return as content.

i love her

Andrew Tate is 'very sick' in prison as lawyer asks the public to 'pray for him' Fat fucking chance of that ever happening. Burn in Hell.

Tengo una pregunta solo para las mujeres: Si un día se despertaran y se dieran cuenta de que todas las demás mujeres del mundo desaparecieron y que solo quedan ustedes y todos los hombres del mundo… ¿Qué sería lo primero que harían?