No Dms Quotes

Let's face it. Our ass is in a crack. We're gonna have to let this nigger bill pass. [Said to Senator John Stennis (D-MS) during debate on the Civil Rights Act of 1957]

Have you seen this man? Owner of a small dirty dick incapable of keeping it in his pants. Last seen in any and everyone’s dms. If found, please return to the streets.

We’re working. Can you put the phone down.” “Can I? Yes. Will I? No.” “Are you that intent on inflicting yourself on the nearest hottie on Tinder? Or are you sliding into the DMs of some of your faithful fans?” He stays focused on the screen. “Neither. I’m on a new app called Whiner. It locates the most insufferable nag within a four-block radius.” He looks at me in mock-surprise. “Holy shit, would you look at that? It’s pointing right at you.

DMS is energetic and enterprising to a degree that from time to time leaves certain persons (e.g. those burdened with a petty fear of death or torture) uneasy (see my prior speculation as to possibility DMS may have been born with a redundant Y chromosome).

Sometimes my anxiety gets hard in ways that you might not expect. If you struggle with anxiety, you probably know this feeling, the paralysis. I get stuck and suddenly it’s been days since I replied to people on the internet and the pressure gets worse and I panic that people I haven’t responded to are mad at me, so I ignore their emails and I don’t look at my DMs or my texts and I don’t answer my phone or listen to voicemails, because if I just wait until my mind gets better, maybe I can deal with this then, but I don’t, because it doesn’t. And instead, I look at those unopened emails from my friends and family and colleagues until I have memorized the subject lines by heart and I think about how strange it is that they probably think I’m ignoring them when, in fact, I am utterly haunted by them.

Things can get out of hand quickly, especially with Sid around. I also decide never to wear heels again when I'm out with him. I go to Holt's in Camden Town and buy a pair of black Dr Martens. (You can get them in black, brown or maroon, the skinhead boys at school used to buy the brown ones and polish them with Kiwi Oxblood shoe polish — this gives them a deep reddish brown colour, much subtler than the flat red of the originals. They also keep them pristinely clean and polished at all times.) I wear my new boots with everything — dresses, tutus — it’s a great feeling to be able to run again. No other girl wears DMs with dresses, so I get a lot of funny looks. (Skinhead girls only wear DMs with Sta-Prest trousers. With their boring grey skirts, they west plain white or holey ecru tights and black patent brogues.) Bit I wear them all the time to clubs and pubs, it eventually catches on with other girls and I don’t look so odd.

So, fast-forward to the Smollett post. After I reposted it, and called them out for taking it down, I received an outpouring of thousands of comments and DMs, some even showing videos, of how Instagram was interfering with my following. Some weren’t allowed to like my posts or my father’s. The little heart would light up, and then it would flash back off. Some commented, “Hey Don, I had to follow you three times this week and I never unfollowed you.” With others, it was, “Don, I was blocked out of my account for twenty-four hours for liking one of your feeds.

Así están las cosas, habrá que hacerles frente: si no acepto definirme como transexual, como «disfórico de género», entonces deberé admitir que estoy enganchado a la testosterona. Cuando un cuerpo abandona las prácticas que la sociedad en la que vive le autoriza como masculino o femenino, se desliza progresivamente hacia la patología. Esas son las opciones biopolíticas que se me ofrecen: o me declaro transexual, o me declaro drogadicta y psicótica. En el estado actual de cosas parece más prudente declararse transexual y dejar que la medicina crea que puede proponerme una cura satisfactoria a mí «trastorno de identidad de género». En ese caso deberé aceptar que he nacido en un cuerpo con el que no me identifico, declarar aborrecer mi bio-cuerpo, mi sexo, mi forma de acceder al orgasmo. Va a ser necesario reescribir mi historia, modificar cualquier elemento que pertenezca a una narración femenina. Tendría que desplegar una buena serie de mentiras bien calculadas: no me gustan las Barbies, nunca he jugado con muñecas, aborrezco mis pechos y mi vagina, siento horror frente a la penetración vaginal, mi único modo posible de tener un orgasmo es con un dildo. De lo que se trata en definitiva es de declararme enfermo mental, confirmando así los criterios fijados por la DMS-IV, el Manual de Diagnóstico de Enfermedades Mentales de la Organización Mundial de la Salud, en el que la transexualidad aparece como enfermedad mental junto con el exhibicionismo, el fetichismo, el frotteurismo, el masoquismo, el sadismo, el travestismo y el voyerismo. Si no acepto esta clasificación médica, entonces entro clara y definitivamente en el territorio irrecuperable de la psicosis. O más bien habría que decir que debo elegir entre dos psicosis: en una (transexualidad) la testosterona aparece como fármaco; en la otra (adicción), la testosterona resulta ser la sustancia cuya dependencia debe ser curada por otros medios. He caído en una trampa política) el problema es que esa trampa tiene la forma de mi subjetividad, es mi propio cuerpo. Pero ¿cómo hemos podido dejarle al Estado la gestión del deseo, de la fantasía sexual, del sentido de habitar o no el cuerpo propio? ¿O habrá que decir el cuerpo del Estado? Si me autoadministro ciertas dosis de testosterona, corriendo el riesgo de desarrollar vello facial, de ver mi voz volverse cada vez más ronca, o de aumentar la talla de mi clítoris sin pensar en vivir 'social y políticamente identificándome como hombre, necesariamente estoy loca.

It’s a fine art sending that first Facebook message to someone you’d eventually like to have sex with.

Jun really was the only person I’ve ever talked to about these kinds of feelings. We used to share all kinds of things back when we used to write each other letters. Actual letters—not emails or texts or DMs. Now that I think about it, Jun should also be graduating this year—assuming he went back to school. I wish I had a way to find out what he’s up to. But I don’t. I messed that up a long time ago.

ON WOMEN DOMINATING INFLUENCER MARKETING AND INSTAGRAM CREATING UNREALISTIC EXPECTATIONS . . . I think women are social creatures and form strong relationships and connections much easier than men, so it’s natural that we dominate social media. I definitely think Instagram can create unrealistic expectations. I have had comments and DMs from followers telling me how my content makes them feel depressed or inadequate. So you know what I do now? I post lots of Insta stories and Facebook posts, usually unedited, about what really goes on in my life. This way, they see the prep that goes into that other Instagram post they saw, including the giant mess that is my office, the team that helps me out, and the 3 A.M. late nights.

ONLY DOG The questions started Before their ashes came home Before the collars grew cold When? Will? You? Get? Another? Dog? DMs and text messages. Conversation from strangers and friends. Tentatively yet boldly they asked asked asked

The fifth edition simplifies and rationalizes D&D in key ways. Breaking down a door is a great example: When Angela wanted to throw her weight around, Willi asked for her strength score—and figured it was high enough to get the job done. “The idea is if you are not rushed, and there’s really no danger, we simply look at it and say anyone with a strength of fifteen or above can open it,” Willi said. “If you are being chased by a horde of goblins and it’s important to get in the door in a rush, then I might make you roll. But generally, it’s the DM’s prerogative.” Compare that to the 3.5 edition rules, which are rather more complicated. First, the player may attempt to smash the door open with a Strength check. They roll a d20 and add their strength bonus. Then the DM checks a table5 that lists different kinds of doors (simple wooden, good wooden, strong wooden, stone, iron, wooden portcullis, iron portcullis) and determines the door’s breaking point. If the player scored higher than that number, they’re through. If not, they’ve got a long way to go. Next, the DM figures out the door’s armor class (10, plus a modifier based on its size, and minus 2 because it’s an inanimate object). Then the player has to fight the door like it’s an opposing monster. They attack, and if the attack roll is higher than the door’s AC, they do damage—but not before the DM goes back to his tables and figures out the door’s hardness. Hardness reduces damage, so if you hit for 9 points of damage against a stone door with a hardness of 8, you really only do 1 point of damage . . . and at that rate, you’ll have to hit the door another sixty times before you eventually smash the thing to pieces. Or, more likely, you toss the stupid rule book under the couch and go play video games instead.

I have so many unopened DMs asking for collaborations, and I have no desire to read them. I’ll be finding a therapist to speak to about this. It’s highly unusual.

Why you should stop _______ E.g. Why you should stop sending blog post notifications / why you should stop writing about your children / why you should stop private Twitter DMs

let me be a smooooth criminal and slide into your dms aheehee OWWW

Aight so bet, here we go! You will experience joy, angst, and mild frustration. I’m 10x/10 going to unalive someone and/or bring them back from the dead…with a smile on my face. So know that if you slide in my DMs hollering, I’m going to laugh. I love you, but I’m going to laugh. These characters are going to fight, cuss, and hunch a lot. Lots of lewd scenes. Procreation and such. Baby, if that’s not your thing, close this book and never open it again. This is a BLACK ROMANCE WITH URBAN UNDERTONES – it will not give you “fluffy”, it will not give you “YT Romance vibes”, it will not give you “unproblematic”. It will give you Ganton Hills, BIG BLACK ENERGY, with guns, and gas station drug money, and strip clubs. Because yeah I love them strippers! Who doesn’t? BFFR!

Imagine my surprise when I saw I had a few DM’s from bitches I didn’t know; I had about three different bitches telling me how they spent time with Tika, some sent pictures as proof, but the one that got me was the picture of Tika smiling down at a newborn baby girl. “Bitch all I’m saying is you’re sometimes boring. We too fine to be worried about some niggas. You had a good one, and you let him go over some shit that happened before yall was married, technically yall was still single.” Red said as we made our way into VIP, the

If you insist on ‘exposing us’,” Donovan said, his voice hard as ice, using air quotes, “we’ll have to do some exposing of our own. Certain people, like network executives, probably aren’t too keen on their employees engaging in blackmail. Besides, Jada is beloved. You know it, and I know it. I’m sure her fans would love to fill your Twitter mentions with all kinds of creative replies if they knew what you were attempting to do.” “You have no proof of blackmail.” Lila’s eyes spat fire. Jada held up a manicured index finger. “Oh, but I do. You know how you kept calling and leaving messages? Silly me, I thought you were asking me to do interviews. Which you were, I guess, technically. I finally got around to listening to the voice mails.” She wrinkled her nose, “Wow. Really creative vocabulary you have there, Lila. That last voice mail was quite a doozy. I wasn’t expecting the threats about how you were going to destroy me, how you were going to leak damaging rumors about me, how you’d been behind a lot of the hate I received online with bot accounts.” Jada grimaced. “Ugly stuff. You sounded drunk or high when you admitted that, so you might not remember saying all that, but you did.” Jada kept her gaze trained squarely on Lila. She ignored John’s gasp. Lila’s already pale skin turned ghastly white. “I don't know what you’re talking about.” Jada sniffed. “Oh, I think you do. Really, I’d hate for those messages to fall into the wrong hands.” Lila sneered, her veneer finally cracking. “You wouldn’t dare. You’re a spoiled, rich girl. You don’t have the balls.” The courage of her convictions swept through Jada. “Keep telling yourself that.” Jada turned to the other member of the blackmailing crew. “As for you, John, I’m sure people would love to know their perfect Mr. America has slid into the DMs of no less than three contestants from My One and Only with a woe-is-me story, trying to get back together with them, all at the same time.” Jada snapped her fingers. “Did I forget to mention I ended my social media hiatus to check my DMs? I do so love it when women have each other’s backs.” Jada gave the cowards a moment to respond. When none came, she offered up the kill shot. “If none of that reasoning convinces you, and I can't imagine why it wouldn’t, please remember this spoiled, rich girl has a billionaire grandmother who loves her very, very much. If I tell her what you both attempted to do to me, she will ruin both your lives, barely lifting a finger. Contrary to what you believe, Lila, I don't make idle threats. I suggest you both slink away and forget you ever knew my name.

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This is how things appear, and it’s going to be necessary to face them: if I don’t accept defining myself as a transsexual, as someone with “gender dysphoria,” I must admit that I’m addicted to testosterone. As soon as a body abandons the practices that society deems masculine or feminine, it drifts gradually toward pathology. My biopolitical options are as follows: either I declare myself to be a transsexual, or I declare myself to be drugged and psychotic. Given the current state of things, it seems more prudent to me to label myself a transsexual and let the medical establishment believe that it can offer a satisfying cure for my “gender identity disorder.” In that case, I’ll have to accept having been born in a biobody with which I don’t identify (as if the body could be a material given that is there before linguistic or political action) and claim that I detest my body, my reproductive organs, and my way of getting an orgasm. I’ll have to rewrite my history, modify all the elements in it that belong under the narrative of being female. I’ll have to employ a series of extremely calculated falsehoods: I’ve always hated Barbie dolls, I’m repulsed by my breasts and my vagina, vaginal penetration makes me sick, and the only way I can have an orgasm is with a dildo. All this could be partly true and partly nonsense. In other words, I’ll have to declare myself mentally ill and conform to the criteria established by the DMS-IV, the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, fourth edition, of the American Psychiatric Association, in which, beginning in 1980, transsexuality was designated as a mental illness, just like exhibitionism, fetishism, frotteurism, masochism, sadism, transvestism, voyeurism . . . just like almost everything that isn’t straight reproductive sexuality and its binary gender system.