Is the opposite of a red flag just a green flag? Why don’t we have a fair opposite to “red flag?”
I don’t think we talk about green flags enough. Because reluctance is a big part of conversations about dating, right? “Yeah, she seems cool, I guess. We’ll see where things go.” I think most of the time we’re falling in love with folks who are merely Okay, like they’re hot enough for you to fear losing them but they’re just generally Acceptable, and a big part of Accepting them is the comfort that they feel similarly about you. Then the red flags are the worst bits of them, the parts that make you say “what if he’s Unacceptable though?” Then—for fair, healthy reasons—they’re overlooked in the hopes that they aren’t planted too deep.
But shouldn’t love be about enjoying another person and then seizing onto the qualities that push them above and beyond? When I think of the women I’ve caught feelings for, it’s because I really like them, but then they’re also blowing my mind and making me laugh with these incidental phrases and body language and thoughts. Raising green flags left and right. Sure, shit may be unrequited, but I don’t really get bothered given that I’m excited to feel anything that shoots past my amiability toward all folks.
And dashing out “simultane story respo” off-the-cuff: massive green flag. I admit there’s probably some context missing, that you don’t know her personality and, even if you do know mine, you’ve got no idea how they interplay. Too bad; this is the most erogenous DM I’ve ever received.
I was stunned to remember that when I was fifteen years-old I once fit my twenty favorite songs on one disc as a mixtape for myself and others. Seeing as I’ve lived a whole second teenage lifespan, I’ve heard at least twenty more perfect songs. I’m not sure any can delete the others. A mixtape of my classics is no longer possible. It’s a five-disc set by Rhino.
I need to keep a list of what triggers Alexa, as a TV character saying “well, fuck, that sucks,” is the latest and likely greatest.
From an album of piano ballads comes this incongruous rollicking romp through self-pity.
No, don’t tell me you’re sorry
You’re just sorry for yourself
And though you may seem fine alone
I wanna be the one to help
There’s a college in Alabama called Samford University and if you are a student, that must be difficult information to share with people. “Stanford! Tree-mendous.” “Samfor-” “Because of the tree.” “In Ala-” “Calafornia, correct!”
I got to see a hawk swoop down on a smaller bird from about ten feet away today. Hawk missed. Looked clumsy as hell. Now I feel less fearful of them circling me.
Upsetting that I’m now the prime demo for The New Yorker but not quite as upsetting as Luke’s chill at the prospect. I mean, c’mon, that’s a big favor by Chewie.
I mean, c’mon, it’s just a slideshow of the most endearing sneer. I already featured this song in last month’s playlist, but you can’t hear cotton candy ombré, can you?
Back in college, during the heyday of this site, I was far more liable to track down music videos for my favorite songs. Over the past year I’ve realized that, even approaching 30 years old, it remains as much fun to watch them with friends and banter, jumping between recent faves without a through line beyond that.
As I fear I might become Mr. 10pm Bedtime myself, there are all these flickering reminders that I’m still enjoying the same conduct as Mr. 6am Bedtime. That, and the fact I can’t stop projecting perfection onto GIRLI. Grimes is dead, long live GIRLI and her dedication to the rumpus and her post-rave trash-fairy genius. I’m getting a magnetic labret to facilitate kissin’.