It turns out procrastination is not typically a function of laziness, apathy or work ethic as it is often regarded to be. It’s a neurotic self-defense behavior that develops to protect a person’s sense of self-worth.
You see, procrastinators tend to be people who have, for whatever reason, developed to perceive an unusually strong association between their performance and their value as a person. This makes failure or criticism disproportionately painful, which leads naturally to hesitancy when it comes to the prospect of doing anything that reflects their ability — which is pretty much everything.
But in real life, you can’t avoid doing things. We have to earn a living, do our taxes, have difficult conversations sometimes. Human life requires confronting uncertainty and risk, so pressure mounts. Procrastination gives a person a temporary hit of relief from this pressure of “having to do” things, which is a self-rewarding behavior. So it continues and becomes the normal way to respond to these pressures.
Particularly prone to serious procrastination problems are children who grew up with unusually high expectations placed on them. Their older siblings may have been high achievers, leaving big shoes to fill, or their parents may have had neurotic and inhuman expectations of their own, or else they exhibited exceptional talents early on, and thereafter “average” performances were met with concern and suspicion from parents and teachers.
“As much as I’d love for it to happen, there will never be a day where the lolita community will stop teasing each other, be it about brand vs. offbrand, being ‘ita’ or a ‘fatty-chan’, or hating on people who drink/do drugs/have sex in lolita. It’s just never going to happen. The lolita community is like any other community pertaining mainly of women: there are going to be bitches. Deal with it.”
Two households, both alike in dignity, in Middle Earth, where we lay our scene From ancient grudge break to new mutiny, Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean. From forth the fatal realms of these two foes A pair of star-cross’d brothers make their life Whose misadventure Sauron overthrows, And with his death, end their people’s strife. Their fearful passage, that shall death mark’d prove And the continuance of their parents’ rage Which but The One Ring’s end, naught could remove, Is now, like, twelve hours’ traffic of our stage; The which of you with patient ears attend, What here shall miss, our toil shall strive to mend.
did you just rewrite shakespeare for lord of the rings and make it work better than the original
well, to be fair, the original shakespeare play is kinda crappy :c
“I love this hobby. But God, why is slut-shaming still a thing here?! It disgusts me every time I see someone posting about how “we’re better than xyz fashion group because we show less skin.” ENOUGH.”
1/2 Tbsp unrefined granulated sugar, such as evaporated cane juice
1/2 Tbsp packed light brown sugar
1 Tbsp beaten egg, preferably organic (cover & chill remaining beaten egg for tomorrow’s cookie cup… you will be making another one!)
tiny splash pure vanilla extract
2 1/2 Tbsp whole wheat pastry flour (can substitute with 3:1 of cake flour and all purpose flour)
1/8 tsp baking soda
tiny pinch salt
heaping 1 Tbsp grain-sweetened chocolate chips, such as Sunspire
In a small ramekin or microwavable cup, combine softened butter and both sugars; stir well with a spoon. Stir in beaten egg and vanilla extract. Stir in flour, baking soda, and salt just until combined. Stir in chocolate chips.
Microwave on high for 35-40 seconds. Let cookie rest at room temperature for about 10 seconds before devouring.
Most white feminists look at me disdainfully when I recount some of my choice violent moments. They are appalled, morally repelled by this unbecoming behavior. One even giggled, holding her breastbone ever so lightly and saying she’s not the violent type, blah blah blah. The messages are, 1) I’m educated and you’re not, 2) I’m upper class and you’re not, 3) I’m a feminist and you’re not (since her brand of feminism is equated with nonviolent moon-to-uterus symbiosis). My “men” can do the fighting, but I, gentle maiden, shan’t; the new feminism remaking a generation in the image of the suburban, wealthy, sophisticated, genetically genteel. No one protected me when a loved one cracked my head on a public street one night, not even the college educated Upper West Side white women strolling by pretending not to notice. I don’t like getting hit either, but what are you gonna do when someone grabs your tits? Meekly whisper you won’t stoop to your attackers level? and what level is that exactly? if that’s the way “women” react, how do we classify the elderly Filipinas on a subway train who, when Joe Dickwad grabbed my ass, congratulated me for whacking him as hard as I could, screaming obscenities, and chasing him - to his utter shock and dismay - through the station? They were the few who seemed to acknowledge, respect, and allow for “aggressive” forms of resistance instead of strapping on moral straight jackets for the nineties which we “women” must squeeze into. If that’s a woman, I’m not one. I am an animal who eats, sleeps, fucks, and fights voraciously - I assume a “good” woman does it gently and in the missionary position only.