Rejection Tony Tulathimutte Quotes

Love is not an accomplishment, yet to lack it still somehow feels like failure.

It’s a mistake to believe social media is all about hearts and thumbs, flames and eggplants. If everyone were only trying to be liked then it’d be kinder, and way more boring. But discourse is loneliness disguised as war. What people there really want is to be perceived on their own terms, which is so, so funny. Because if the grand promise of the internet was to be whoever you want, in reality it will make of you whatever it wants, and beneath every mask is another mask mistaken for a face.

Identity is diet history, single serving sociology; at its worst, a partriotism of trauma, or a prothesis of personality. Privilege discourse a well-meaning attempt to balance scales that have become tainted, like most things American, by the puritanical paradigm of original sin.

The annoying thing about disagreeing with libs is they tend to assume you’re either to their right, or misinformed and in urgent need of enlightenment.

No better place to find people when the people I wanted to find were people who, like me, wanted to find people who don't want to be found. People like me, who like people who don't like people like me.

Still, the school ingrained in him, if not feminist values per se, the value of feminist values. It had been cool, or at least normal, to identify as asexual.

The worst feeling in the world is winning the patronizing approval of someone so, so stupid.

I loved Twitter: an open, rhizomatic forum where you could aggravate existing mental illnesses, shop for new ones, violate your Miranda rights, and get fired. A place to be judged on the character of your content, driven by rubbernecking and spite, where fame is a millstone and names are bad op-sec. Twitter was the right word for it, birdsong being a Darwinian squall mistaken for idle chatter, screaming for territory and mates. An improv class, press conference, intervention, Klan rally, comics convention, and struggle session all booked in the same conference room.

The one thing in this dumbass world I hate most is emotional coercion; having it insinuated with tender concern that the way I feel about things is unreasonable, and if they validate me enough, I’ll eventually agree with them in return, and moreover feelings themselves must always be disciplined to fall in line with agreed-upon scruples. Adjust in the name of compromise! But I’m always the only one who ends up adjusting.

So the convention sucks, the alternative sucks; what’s the alternative to the alternative? I’ve looked for it my whole life. And

I now saw the peril of forging a persona to escape all assignations, only to end up searing it into yourself. Not for nothing is it called a brand.

Grrr, friend-zoned again!” he says, shaking his fists toward the ceiling

This is why my interest is not in identity politics so much as identity terrorism.

she’s forced to choose between self-respect and peace of mind, when each requires the other, so it is a choice between nothing and nothing.

Even looking past the internet-borne tendency for writers of your generation to ass-cover with tedious disclaimers, the real point, we think, is to foreclose scrutiny, to get ahead of rejection by naming your sins before any reader has a chance to. But this perverse apologizing only feels like you're cutting and chewing our meat for us, and we reject you (literally) all the harder.

Here finally Kant perceives the true rift between them: Julian doesn't know the difference between embarrassment and shame. How shame soaks, stains, leaves a skidmark on everything and when it has nothing to stick to, spreads until it does. Embarrassment is contained by incidents, gets funny and small over time; shame runs gangrene through the entire past, makes the future impossible. You can't own it or laugh it off, only try to bail it out in sloshing bucketfuls, drenching yourself in the process. Embarrassment is an event, shame a condition, one that Julian has somehow either mastered or never experienced, which explains why he's so easygoing, and why, to him, the world is so tractable, why all seems fixable with talk. What's inside Julian is smooth and fragrant, his desires desirable, and so his words are gift wrap, sometimes sloppy but always appreciated. Whereas if Kant ever relaxes his vigilance, allows his own sick and malign requirements to escape through the candor of voice or touch, they could never be recontained.

But I can't forgive myself for getting taken in by the exaltation of vulnerability. You only trust me insofar as you can wound me? What the fuck's that about? This is the error I think people make when they mistake validation for liberation.

great job combating white patriarchy when anti-PC panics have been the most effective right-wing propaganda against the left in every iteration of the culture wars,

—but dearer are those who reject us as unworthy, for they add another life: they build a heaven before us, whereof we had not dreamed, and thereby supply to us new powers out of the recesses of the spirit, and urge us to new and unattempted performances. —RALPH WALDO EMERSON

But I hate having my life judged as the output of generic forces, that however I understand or react to them is secondary to the fact that I share them with others. Identity is diet history, single-serving sociology; at its worst, a patriotism of trauma, or a prosthesis of personality.

In my hundreds of hours of research, I've often paused to question the worth of deep dives like this, and have never been able to convincingly justify my involvement in the lives of these people I've never met, ones who might not even exist. Is it nothing but a folk version of reality television? Or has the evolutionary drive to seek social instruction by observing and interpreting the behavior of others hypertrophied beyond usefulness, such that now, in our binges of drama, to watch ourselves watch someone else watch us has become an end in itself? An end without end?

You've tried worms and string, bow and arrows, a bamboo spear, a two-hundred-dollar carbon fiber rod, dragnets, dynamite, and your bare hands. You can't catch a break. Every lure, every lake, no luck. There's so many of them, slick, fat, and iridescent, and you are starving. But what matters least is what the fisherman wants.

But the best ones are those dauntless donuts and gormless corncobs yanking full force at their fingertraps, who triple-down and rearrange their whole belief systems around their stupidest opinions just to avoid publicly admitting they’re wrong, and by day’s end find themselves unemployed and divorced with 50,000 Blackpink stans skywriting their Social Security number.

She clenches her eyelids and presses her fists into her temples, as if to physically crush this false conviction that Neil is in some way realer than everyone else, that he is somehow the axis of her life and the only one who can “save” her and his opinion of her constitutes her entire worth, having staked exclusive mining rights to her happiness, because of the irreplicable circumstances of how they knew each other, when at the bottommost level of truth she knows he’s just . . . another . . . fucking . . . guy.

Part of me genuinely wanted to try to explain how there existed two adversarial factions of female leftist cumposters, one that posted about being bimbo throat-goats who wanted their big naturals blasted with cum but also wanted insulin to be state-subsidized, vs. the theorypilled cynics whose political acumen and hotness and crassness were part of a larger project of licensing ridicule, and how one of the latter did a mean quote-tweet of one of the former, which in each of their camps set off a chain of subtweets and retaliations and excavations of past racist tweets and micropartisan wagon-circling that accomplished nothing but to till the soil for future clashes and demonstrate how far beyond salvation everyone was, including, especially, obviously, me.

Understand this is no confession. I never got the point of online apologies, this notion that you're accountable to strangers who aren't affected and maybe wouldn't have even known of your offense, had you not apologized. I guess we feel responsible to the image of ourselves we've installed in other people's heads. but real accountability requires a community. Online you can meet people, hang out, hook up, meet your soulmate, but it's not a community. In a real community bonds are hard to dissolve and antagonisms must be sustained, there's continuity, and unavoidable neighbors. The internet is millions of solitudes blinking in and out of existence, each dreaming the others, where "consensus reality" is less an agreed-upon reality than a reality made of agreement. With identity it's the same—this idea that a checkbox on a form is a service tunnel to a stranger's soul. People will always fall for it.

Bars, that’s very tea, sis!

algorizzm

This, with the kid gloves of gentility white libs always use when they want to make your annoyance feel unreasonable; the flopsweating jargon invoked to signal their literacy on the subject of your existence; that fart-holding wince when they sense their good intentions going unrewarded.

their allyship is every bit about their image of themselves, far outweighing your well-being or dignity, and they’ll yeet this cumbersome ballast the moment they sense ingratitude, the very instant you obstruct their protagonism.

I am a subhuman 2.7 GPA cum reservoir for your first-generation Thai-American diaspora uberdick, and actually I’m enjoying it despite my deep shame, not that I’m asking you to stop.

As for everyone else, no one misses what they didn't know they might've had; loss only hurts when there ever was a possibility.

You've turned your loneliness into this, like, fetish necklace of martyrdom. And all of us--have to sit here and rubber-stamp your feminism. If we don't indulge your wallowing, we're being callous and, like, complicit with some diabolical global conspiracy that's keeping you from getting pussy. But if we do, then we're 'disingenuous' because none of us will fuck you ourselves.

I'd rather die a sane virgin than fall for this mess.

Man, I never wanted this power, or the moral authority everyone around here seemed to mistake for power, but was actually just another way I was expected to be a mommy to men and a spiritual custodian for white people. My mom had warned me men only wanted my body; I wasn't prepared for anyone to want my pitiable soul.

Learning in high school about body positivity and gender norms and the cultural construction of beauty had led him to believe that adults aren’t obsessed with looks.

SAE

No one’s taken the true measure of the early-aughts shock site, I think; the occultist compulsion to see all that no one wants to see.

hyper-Caucasoid LARPers who get blue contact lenses and blond dye jobs and are somehow simultaneously the only nonwhite and the most white person in every group photo

might have been shut in my room watching autopsy videos,

My first one was @HoleFoods, where I went to restaurants and, instead of reviewing the service or ambiance or meal, I posted photos of my next day’s dump, with an account of duration, noise, smell, assfeel, Bristol stool scale rating, etc.

All she wants is some credible vouchsafing of love and admiration from one non-horrible man who finds her interesting and attractive and good- who finds her good and attractive because she is interesting. Nothing more.

It was always this way with the white libs, their anxieties of privilege manifesting as showy accommodation, or useless lipchewing over having caused offense, or aggressive confrontation on behalf of an absent third party, the only balm for which is unconditional admiration and approval. Did

get a liberal to do anything besides vote and hold signs, that debate ever did anything besides harden whatever position you started with.

This, with the kid gloves of gentility white libs always use when they want to make your annoyance feel unreasonable. The flop-sweating jargon invoked to signal their literacy on the subject of your existence. That fart holding wince when they sense their good intentions going unrewarded.

because to be canceled requires the two things I completely lack: identity and shame.

Now why am I rehashing years-old Twitter wank? Because, first and most importantly, lol. But also, I was behind the whole thing.

Kant leaps up and retreats into the corner of the room by the door, then escapes out of the room and the house in an ink cloud of apologies, hurries past Mayor McCheese, and gets back into his car.

And instead of owning it by saying “I’m sorry, ese, but I have to break my promise to you about pursuing our goals,” she walked over to me all slowly and handed me this kind of like, big nasty pouch made out of her pink microfiber towel, covered in stains and full of junk.

copypasta

Did you know the reason white people age faster is because they literally have thinner skin?

But the secret is that there are no Normal Asians, just Crazians who have yet to pop.

She clenches her eyelids and presses her fists into her temples, as if to physically crush this false conviction that Neil is in some way realer than everyone else, that he is somehow the axis of her life and the only one who can “save” her and his opinion of her constitutes her entire worth, having staked exclusive mining rights to her happiness, because of the irreplicable circumstances of how they knew each other, when at the bottommost level of truth she knows he’s just . . . another . . . fucking . . . guy.

But what matters least is what the fisherman wants.

I can’t explain why I believe that privacy is the mainspring of personhood, that the more you reveal the less there is to reveal. How the only way to pass through a hall of mirrors and know by the end which you is you is to obfuscate.

he’s the kind of guy who’s only fully engaged when she’s talking about her pain

Like I don’t care if both our parents made us learn piano

But discourse is loneliness disguised as war. What people there really want is to be perceived on their own terms, which is so, so funny. Because if the grand promise of the internet was to be whoever you want, in reality it will make of you whatever it wants, and beneath every mask is another mask mistaken for a face.