Tell Your Stories. Live On.
It’s. All. Happening.
WE JUST LAUNCHED TICKET SALES TO OUR AMAZING EVENT IN SAN FRANCISCO!
My partner is generally freaked out by how freaked out I am about death. Not my own death — because I’ve been courting a healthy trifecta of agnostic, atheistic, and nihilistic tendencies and feel generally A-OK about my own body rotting in the ground since I was a kid . . .
But people I love dying? It fucking terrifies me.
In my particularly spooky and self-punishing moods I viscerally imagine the deaths of my most cherished people. I even have a project called “Eulogies For The Living” in which I write speeches for their funerals. My idea is that people should know how magical and brilliant and wonderful they are right the hell now.
Anyway. I was visiting one of my best friends last night; her toddler daughter was sleeping in the next room. Her husband came home — who is also a dear friend — and explained his mother had recently entered hospice; she isn’t going to recover from the stroke she’s had.
I thought of the tiny new life — powdered and pink and poised on the cusp of 85 years — and the woman languishing in Allentown, Pennsylvania just two hours away. I thought about the thread running between them, how the memory of his mother will be rendered in stories and photographs; that little girl will tell herself a story of her grandmother and in her mind, she will live on.
Tell your stories. Live on.
With love + rage,
Co-founder | Creative Director
By Antonia Crane
You’re 44 — which is approximately 187 in stripper years. Okay, you’re really 46, but you lie to everyone about your age and have for years: to friends, co-workers, your dad, your bosses, your customers, CNN. You have been working in the sex industry for over 25 years.
You wish there was someone you could talk to about it but you don’t know anyone who has clocked in for booty duty this long. You look like hell. You have the shits. You’re dehydrated.
By Barbara Clabots
As the imprisoned population grew, state governments began to outsource the building and maintenance of prison facilities to private corporationswhile still promising to buy the products they produced, and the Prison Industrial Complex was born, proliferating across the U.S.
All this, and inmates are generally being paid cents per hour.
By Lindsey Weedston
While it has enjoyed major popularity, particularly among white male youth, South Park has also done more than perhaps any other American program to desensitize the public to bigotry, bullying, and downright cruelty.
On August 13 of this year, Trey Parker and Matt Stone will celebrate 20 years of making South Park, a show that glorifies being an asshole with the excuse that it’s “comedy.” Meanwhile, Donald Trump continues to be President of the United States.
These statements are more related than they may seem.
By Ekundayo Afolayan
Some days I feel like my breasts don’t “fit” me, and other days they’re the perfect accessory; maybe I want to wear a binder one day and a push-up bra the next. Now that I know who I am, that doesn’t feel like a contradiction. These are all parts of my self-definition, which comes from within.
I’m more than a man, and I’m more than a woman: I’m a singular experience. Some days I want be penetrated, and other days I want to top with the perfect dick. Which is why I now know that I have to push forward and find the perfect dick for me.
By Sian Ferguson
I often complain about adulting when I have to make an appointment to see a doctor, but truthfully, I first took myself to a clinic when I was 12. I had just been sexually assaulted and I found out I was pregnant.
I was afraid to tell anyone, so there I was, “adulting” alone. My situation was horrific, but far from unique. We often don’t want to admit that children are put in these positions because it’s painful to imagine — but we need to acknowledge that this is a reality, or we erase marginalized children altogether.