Clare Halpine is a dynamic individual with a BFA from Mount Allison University as well as a few certificates of participation from various leadership seminars and motivational speaking events. Clare holds the "Whole World" organization in her hands. In her free time, she enjoys exploring alternative pedagogy and subverting the usual glamorous or sensational depictions of self on Vimeo.
I hardly ever go for a stroll. Where? How? “Along the winding country road?” Pure fantasy. You mean the little bits of gravel sprinkled on the shoulder? If I have to leave the house, to stretch my legs or pop in on the neighbors, I make the sign of the cross and scurry as fast as I can—hoping to God the drivers will see me in my little orange hunting cap. But it’s just hit or miss.
On maximizing your time in solitary confinement.
Facebook Friends Without Benefits (broken heart) and Other Newsfeeds
Somehow, you used to be able to get away with using Facebook as an emotional outlet; by putting your rambling tidbits of melancholia in quotation it seemed plausible that you were just quoting Sylvia Plath.
I Hope You're Happy, Mr. Mumford
I don’t know her but I guess I just didn’t picture the two of you ending up together. Not that I ever took time out of my own life to picture you or something.
It's a Great Time to be a Guy Part III: the Cool-Down
He felt they were speaking directly to him. Obviously, they had noticed him and, in their own subtle, feminine way, they were inviting him to approach.
It's a Great Time to Be a Guy, Part II: the Warm-Up
“The situation under discussion bears few distinguishing characteristics from that of the historical reality of pre-war Poland.” (Duh.)
I know it sounds too good to be true. It’s like the world has thrown you a stag party as your punishment for failing to measure up. What’s the catch?
What had she accomplished? There was no internet startup, she had not travelled to Africa, and she had not founded an NGO.
The Hostess and the Tree Branch
Where there is darkness, dining room candles need to be replenished; even when there is fullness, give them specialty-bagged cookies before they leave.
It is incredibly cold inside but I resist putting on my sweater. Something, something… “the right to bare arms”… After all, I don’t want them to think that I am trying to hide something. I have nothing to hide. No way. Not me.
She deduced that she really had only one option left. She would pretend to be a social critic who attends concerts not for personal enjoyment, but to document the mundanity of music in the post-hipster revival of Williamsburg.
Your thumbs are aching. Your wrists are burning. But, you persevere. You hit send. You smile, as you picture the delight on the face of the receiver who will open your clever little text.
Battling unfeminist thoughts with sheer snark.
Think of sociology, or literature, but with pictures on the projector screen to hold your attention in class.
With your freshness comes a great deal of naïve hope. Or maybe delusion.
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