Five Star's 312th Great Blog Roundup Is Brought to You By Nick Hornby
This Five Star great blog roundup is brought to you by the insatiable machine of blogging, looking back and looking forward, the burden of dealing with trolls and critics, identity and brain trauma, committing fashion crimes while ageing, privilege and success, uncovering the spectrum, and Nick Hornby:
Happy Tuesday, and happy reading!
Here’s your plan, baby. You’re going to build this blogging career layer upon layer, like a tantalizing dripping sandwich they only serve in ancient deli’s on the East Coast. You will whiz and zing around people’s palates and serve up some mouth-watering truth bites that will satisfy a NATION of readers. Your name will drip off their lips as they spray your word crumbs all across the Internet. Wash your hands, baby. It’s time.
I've started writing birthday letters to the kids. Just a few paragraphs that would hopefully remind them of me and of my eternal, unconditional love. Remind them I'm there even if I'm not physically there. I want them to know they can turn to me at any age--not for advice, but for comfort. Not to help them create their paths, but to remind them their paths are up to them, and that I'll be proud no matter what.
…it doesn’t seem fair to ask those of us who are most likely to be hated on, by both the more refined and the more revolting members of the species, to shoulder the overwhelming preponderance of that decision. It doesn’t seem fair to ask that we be better, more noble, more understanding, than those who seek to make our lives miserable. It doesn’t seem reasonable to ask us to be the model token minorities of the Internet.
Aside from her gaunt frame, trauma hasn't seemed to touch her physically. All you see are her big brown eyes and red lips and bobbed hair and her legs, still so beautiful in her old bell-bottomed jazz pants. All you see is a dancer bouncing down the hallway. You’d never know she couldn't remember her own birthday, her own address or her grandchildren’s names. You might not even guess she had grandchildren.
One of the great things about being a woman of a “certain age” is a burgeoning maturity to give zero fucks on what the public at large thinks about one’s fashion sense let alone the sagging ragtag bits of the aging female body in all of its subversive glory.
There are moments when I look at the enormity of what it takes to maintain the balance of this responsibility, and I feel irate on behalf of those who do not have a support system. Because if I’m feeling overwhelmed or frustrated it’s only because I was born into a position that lets me indulge even a moment of those emotions.
He says, “So what happened is that, one time, I saw this ad in a magazine. And it said, send us some money… and we will mail you a queen bee!”
He sits down, shakes his head in disbelief. “Well, I had to find out if that was real, so I sent the money. And one day this box here just shows up in the mail. So I open it and there’s this bee just sitting there, looking at me. And I just stood there, looking at her. I couldn’t believe it. Someone mailed me a queen bee. So I ran to the library and started researching bees, because I had no idea what to do with her.”
And because you are a fan of finding good, new writing on the internet: