You asked: Favorite way to deliver a love confession?
I answer: The best time a first “I love you” tumbled out of my gaping maw—- I was drunk and eating pizza, but most of all—I meant it so fucking much I had to say it, I had to say it now, I had to say it with marinara sauce on my teeth.
When you are about to explode from it all, you sing it out, and you’ll be surprised how loud you can hit the notes.
Anyway: Go for it. You die always and you could even die loved. I’d say it’s a risk worth taking. If not, you’re still alive and there’s always tomorrow and fuck it, there’s always pizza.
“There’s still very much this stereotype that teenage girls are not serious consumers of music, even though they are the number one purchasers of music. Teenage girls are the number one consumers of music, they are the number one drivers of taste, and yet they are still not considered serious music fans.”—Jessica Hopper, music editor at Rookie. Read her full interview with Jay Gabler. (via 893thecurrent)
Empathy isn’t just something that happens to us—a meteor shower of synapses firing across the brain—it’s also a choice we make: to pay attention, to extend ourselves. It’s made of exertion, that dowdier cousin of impulse. Sometimes we care for another because we know we should, or because it’s asked for, but this doesn’t make our caring hollow. The act of choosing simply means we’ve committed ourselves to a set of behaviors greater than the sum of our individual inclinations: I will listen to his sadness, even when I’m deep in my own. To say “going through the motions”—this isn’t reduction so much as acknowledgment of the effort—the labor, the motions, the dance—of getting inside another person’s state of heart or mind.
This confession of effort chafes against the notion that empathy should always arise unbidden, that genuine means the same thing as unwilled, that intentionality is the enemy of love. But I believe in intention and I believe in work. I believe in waking up in the middle of the night and packing our bags and leaving our worst selves for our better ones.
[MEG runs into the room] MEG: I’m getting married! BETH: Congratulations! AMY: Congratulations! [JO is idly poking at the ashes in the fireplace] MEG: Jo, did you hear me? Mr. Brooke proposed to me and I accepted him! [JO draws a dick in the ashes] JO: I heard you