The New Yorker has a Facebook page, which a lot of you like, or maybe it’s just one person with a lot of time on their hands, liking the page over and over again. But in any case, it’s a whole lotta like. We like that
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I only knew about the back pain symptom because I get periodic viral infections that give me debilitating pain in my shoulderblade. I'd never heard of it before I had to look up a symptom that most people will never, ever experience.
I am so sick of seeing that thing being reblogged that I could vomit flaming acid.
Television’s portrayal of men’s heart attacks are also grossly inaccurate, which also leads to deaths due to misdiagnosis. As someone with a chronic heart condition, the dangerous shittiness of this advice hits really close to home. Don’t get your medical advice from television OR feminist blogs, get it from a fucking medical professional, even if that means just calling up nurseline if you’re uninsured. It’s much better than winding up dead because what you’re feeling doesn’t look like what you saw on Gray’s Anatomy last week or because Feministing told you that ~women’s~ heart attacks feel different.
The old "Beetle Bailey" newspaper comic strip used to be censored for having navels on any of the characters (like when they were drawn wearing bathing suits). The King Features newspaper syndicate would use an exacto knife and simply scrape off the ink dot that was the navel in the original drawing. Cartoonist Mort Walker then drew Beetle Bailey having to deliver a box of navel oranges and after that, the syndicate left the characters' navels alone.
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Especially when I've seen moobs bigger than many women's breasts.
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http://stfuconservatives.tumblr.com/post/31294041689
... which frankly terrifies me.
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Television’s portrayal of men’s heart attacks are also grossly inaccurate, which also leads to deaths due to misdiagnosis.
As someone with a chronic heart condition, the dangerous shittiness of this advice hits really close to home. Don’t get your medical advice from television OR feminist blogs, get it from a fucking medical professional, even if that means just calling up nurseline if you’re uninsured. It’s much better than winding up dead because what you’re feeling doesn’t look like what you saw on Gray’s Anatomy last week or because Feministing told you that ~women’s~ heart attacks feel different.
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My friends in Spain made fun of me about that x.x
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