Okay you know what I was just gonna reblog this and say nothing but you know what, I’m pissed off and you wanna know why?
Ted is a Nice Guy. I don’t mean a nice man, no. I mean the motherfucking “Nice Guy” who moans and complains about how women just won’t flock to him and be exactly who he expects of them. He knew from the beginning Robin wanted to focus on her career before marriage. He knew from the beginning she didn’t want kids. She rejected him time after time before they dated the first time. She rejected him time after time after that, for nine goddamn fucking years. His refusal to stop pursuing her, and accept she did not fucking love her, destroyed his relationship with Victoria TWICE. He is the whiny high school teenager bitching because the popular girl he obsesses over just isn’t into him. He is the goddamn Nice Guy, the kind whose every action, every so-called kind deed is done purely out of trying to get Robin to date him.
Robin motherfucking Scherbatsky was an independent woman who not only relied on herself, but expected the men she wanted to be with to be independent and rely on himself, as well. She was career-minded and strong and independent and self-reliant. Those were the traits that doomed her and Ted.
In this gifset we see that Ted did not respect Robin for who she was. He didn’t want her to be self-reliant—he wanted her to rely on him. He’s like so many men out there, so many Nice Guys. Baby, let me take care of you while you put me before everything else, You’re too independent, Robin. I need you to need me, I need you to rely on me. The reason they didn’t work out was because they both wanted and needed different things in relationships, and that’s okay—what isn’t okay is that instead of accepting that, Ted blames her. Tells her that SHE is the reason why they broke up, and something about her is WRONG. He insults her, tells her that her fundamental personality is wrong, and that she is why their relationship failed; that they they just aren’t compatible, no; because she is broken.
She is so upset at this she goes to another ex. He’s the Jerk, you know; the guy who all the Nice Guys in the world call The Asshole. And you know what? You know what this Asshole does? He comforts her, he compliments her. He tells her that those traits, teh traits she’s been belittled and taunted over, the traits that make her broken, the reason why She Can’t Find A Man, are what make her wonderful. Barney loved her for her insecurities, and he supported her independence. He supported her self-reliance. In one scene, this Asshole prove to be far more accepting and mature than the so-called Nice Guy.
So who do she end up with?
I really don’t give a shit to reblog it again.
I have never seen something more true than this.
Anonymous said: Were you a child prodigy?
I was a reasonably good elementary school student (although certainly not the best in my class), and then a not-very-good middle school student, and then a poor student for much of high school. (I failed my junior English class, and had to write essays about The Bluest Eye and Twelfth Night over the summer to get a D.)
Some of this had to do with intellectual challenges: I was a bit behind the curve when it came to abstractions. Like, I could not handle the idea of the equation x + 2 = 4, because x is not a number, so how is that even possible? My struggle with abstractions was also seen in my study of literature and anything that couldn’t be, like, memorized. (I’ve always been a pretty good speller, for instance.)
Some of my troubles in school also had to do with what in retrospect were social and mental health challenges. But I was very lucky to have teachers who saw a lot of potential in me and refused to give up on me, even when I was defiant and annoying and set off fireworks outside their bedroom windows. (Do not do this. It is not cool. It is just annoying.)
That said, I think it’s an oversimplification to say that I was a “troubled child” or whatever. By college, I was engaged and interested in many of my subjects and became, as my favorite college professor once called me, “a solid B+ kind of fellow.”
I don’t think it’s fair to see some kids as merely smart and others as merely troubled, or to think that kids who are performing poorly in school are simply miscreants/stupid/whatever. (It’s also unfair to portray kids who perform well in school or who have expansive vocabularies or whatever as inherently untroubled.)
Of course, none of this should be an excuse to give up. It can be really hard to try to stay engaged in school/learning/anything, especially when you don’t have the kind of support I was lucky to enjoy. But it’s also worth it. Learning is hard, and learning how to learn is hard, and it doesn’t happen overnight. It really is something that we have to do for a lifetime—or, more optimistically, that we get to do for a lifetime.
Anonymous said: "It's a metaphor" I have no doubt that you completely understand and stand by this statement that the act of putting an unlit cigarette in Augustus Waters' mouth is in fact a metaphor. But for some folks, we don't see it asa metaphor, we see it as situational irony, or a simple statement. Please explain how it is a metaphor.
Well, a character in a novel saying that something is a metaphor is not the same thing as the author of the novel saying that it’s a metaphor. Gus’s intellectual grasp often exceeds his reach (he calls a monologue a soliloquy, and misuses quite a few of the bigger words in his vocabulary). But I do think the cigarette is a metaphor, albeit a different one for us than it is for him.
Gus’s idea is that the cigarette is a metaphor for illness, and he keeps it unlit and in his mouth as an expression of his power over illness. “You put the killing thing between your teeth but you don’t give it the power to do its killing.” Gus’s thinking here is that HE has the power. This is why he tends to use the cigarette when he’s feeling nervous or powerless. (He’s also using the most famous commercially available carcinogen to make this statement, so obviously there’s a connection there in his mind: Humans can prevent cancer by not smoking; cancer is something we can have power over; your job is not to give cancer the power to kill you; etc.)
But of course Gus is wrong about all of this, or at least almost all of it. You may have SOME control over whether you die of cancer (you can choose not to smoke), but in most cases humans don’t have control over illness. “You don’t give it the power to do its killing” imagines more agency over illness than we actually have, because in the end much of the fault is in the stars, not in ourselves. So to us, the unlit cigarette is a metaphor for our false perception of control, and our urgent need to feel in control. It’s no coincidence, then, that when Gus’s life is spiraling out of control and he finds himself powerless before fate, he tries (and fails) to buy cigarettes.