"I have no apprentice, The five dollar guy works alone. I only have one bandanna but i do believe in good hygiene so my clothes and bandanna are washed on a regular basis. I promise that i have never ejaculated on anyones property unless they wanted me to.”
“What happened to that guy, anyway? Does it matter? He could be too busy, afraid of commitment, lost in a k-hole, or dead. Those are his personal issues, and they’ve got nothing to do with you. All you have to know is that it’s not happening, and it’s nothing personal. Or it is intensely personal, in which case: Do you really want him to spell it out for you?”
“Are we hugging here? Oh, we are? So my arms are going over—OK, under. One over, one under? Or is this an open-faced, one-arm-clutching-the-opposite-shoulder situation? Should our torsos graze? Is that weird? Where is your mouth—are you making a legitimate attempt to kiss my cheek right now, or are we doing one of those pretend ones? Dear God there’s no time: I have anchored my ass a foot away from your body, flattened my face into your clavicle, and am now waving my rag-doll arms limply from between your armpits. Great to see you!!”
“The idea that before the Internet rained hellfire on teenage bedrooms across America, girls and boys were sipping soda pops and slipping letterman jackets over each other’s shoulders is untrue and offensive. Sex was not better when women were second-class citizens.”
“Breaking Bad I just got into, but I haven’t been able to keep up with it as much. There’s just a lot of him coughing. I’m in the first season, and the coughing is driving me crazy. Like, we get it. You’re dying. Do you really need a whole two-minute scene of another cough attack? It’s too much. In every bad situation, how does he get out? He just starts coughing.”
“David is a 21-year-old guy from London who listens to Kendrick Lamar, obsessively watches the British TV drama Top Boy, and tweets about grades and drugs. Whenever he feels like it, he pulls down his pants, points his phone toward his crotch, and tapes himself masturbating for six seconds. He publishes the results on Vine, a microvideo app dedicated to the quick and easy sharing of Internet catnip: pets acting cute, skateboarders falling down, and—inevitably—porn.”
When Bleacher Report co-founder Bryan Goldberg announced the launch of Bustle, his $6.5 million “feminist” website for women, one corner of the vast and sweeping backlash to his announcement centered on how much of Goldberg’s multi-million dollar payday would actually trickle down to the women writing the site. In one widely-circulated job posting published last month, Goldberg offered to pay Bustle freelancers $100 a day for half a dozen pieces of content.
Low wages are not rare in online publishing, but Goldberg pledged to set his site apart by offering a pittance, at least. “At Bustle, we thoroughly recruit and review prospective writers, and we pay them,” he wrote on PandoDaily."It’s very hard to pay writers a full-time salary with benefits these days,” he acknowledged to Forbes in April. But “there’s a lot of room between paying someone $100,000 and benefits and paying them nothing.”
When one writer contacted Bustle asking about their freelance rates late last month, she was told that her contributions to the site would, in fact, pay nothing. A contract news writer tasked with writing 8 to 10 200-300 word breaking stories each day would be paid a $100 daily rate ($10-$12.50 per piece), she was told. A contract opinion writer could earn $100 for 4-5 “well researched and more developed longer pieces” published in one day ($20-$25 per piece). But the typical Bustle freelancer stood to earn $0:
We are open to freelance pitches, though at this moment, we’re unable to offer compensation. We definitely hope to in the near future, however, so please do stay in touch. In the meantime, we’re happy to accept submissions or pitch ideas.
Publishers have completely lost sight of which dimension their readers are not-living in. This is a territory where spirits are doomed to roam without purpose, yearning for a divine closure they will never, ever find. They have nothing but time on their (formless) hands. And, in many cities, they out-number their living counterparts! But magazines like UsWeekly talk to ghosts as though they were children, and they fail to connect popular culture with any form of social commentary about what it’s like to spend eternity trapped in a necromantic feverscape.
Invest in your lifeless future with TheBoostle.com
“Where is the Gawker for women? The ESPN for women? The Awl for women? The Slate for women? The Onion for women? Perhaps when Google finally launches a search engine for women, we will be capable of locating the websites targeted at us, so that advertisers may sell us things. For now, we will read Bustle.”