Diane Lin Sullivan

Las Vegas Digital Marketer

Posts from the ‘Images’ category

Once upon a time Diane Sullivan asked Garner Presser out on a date.  One date quickly became two dates, then three dates, then suddenly there was hand holding and quick smooches, Garner nervously saying “I love you” and Diane saying it back, followed by more hand holding, trips to Zion, trips to San Francisco, a puppy named Cooper, more “I love yous,” pillow forts, Christmas videos and lots of deep stares into one another’s eyes. Now we are getting married this September!

Fun facts:

  • Garner recently finished his first novel, Louder is Better, and is currently looking for an agent to help get it published.
  • Our forever puppy Cooper has his own Instagram page.

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This is my amazing Team from the UNLV eSports Lab.  The class was focused around how to attract millennials into casinos.  I learned so much about the world of gamers, designing experiences for a target demographic, and team work.  Most importantly I met a group of very smart, good, and inspiring people who also love ramen!

Fun fact: Nancy Tran, from our Team, started the largest female League of Legends video game group on Facebook with approximately 50,000 members.  She is also a professional streamer.

UNLV eSports Lab

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In my next life I want to be an elementary school teacher!  Mostly because my elementary school teach, Mrs. McKaren, was the best ever.  From teaching English in Beijing to volunteering at an engineering school for kids in Vegas, I have always enjoyed being around little humans with big spirits.  If you ever need help at an event or a babysitter, please let me know!

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“I do things like get in a taxi and say, ‘The library, and step on it.’”
– Infinite Jest (1996)

Everything takes time. Bees have to move very fast to stay still.” – Brief Interviews with Hideous Men (1999)

Fiction is one of the few experiences where loneliness can be both confronted and relieved. Drugs, movies where stuff blows up, loud parties — all these chase away loneliness by making me forget my name’s Dave and I live in a one-by-one box of bone no other party can penetrate or know. Fiction, poetry, music, really deep serious sex, and, in various ways, religion — these are the places (for me) where loneliness is countenanced, stared down, transfigured, treated.”

“Every love story is a ghost story.”

Harlem by Langston Hughes

What happens to a dream deferred? 


      Does it dry up 
      like a raisin in the sun? 
      Or fester like a sore— 
      And then run? 
      Does it stink like rotten meat? 
      Or crust and sugar over— 
      like a syrupy sweet? 


      Maybe it just sags 
      like a heavy load. 


      Or does it explode?

Kindness by Naomi Shihab Nye

Before you know what kindness really is
you must lose things,
feel the future dissolve in a moment
like salt in a weakened broth.
What you held in your hand,
what you counted and carefully saved,
all this must go so you know
how desolate the landscape can be
between the regions of kindness.
How you ride and ride
thinking the bus will never stop,
the passengers eating maize and chicken
will stare out the window forever.
Before you learn the tender gravity of kindness,
you must travel where the Indian in a white poncho
lies dead by the side of the road.
You must see how this could be you,
how he too was someone
who journeyed through the night with plans
and the simple breath that kept him alive.
Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside,
you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing. 
You must wake up with sorrow.
You must speak to it till your voice
catches the thread of all sorrows
and you see the size of the cloth.
Then it is only kindness that makes sense anymore,
only kindness that ties your shoes
and sends you out into the day to mail letters and purchase bread,
only kindness that raises its head
from the crowd of the world to say
it is I you have been looking for,
and then goes with you everywhere
like a shadow or a friend

Assurance by William Stafford

You will never be alone, you hear so deep
a sound when autumn comes. Yellow
pulls across the hills and thrums,
or the silence after lightening before it says
its names- and then the clouds’ wide-mouthed
apologies. You were aimed from birth:
you will never be alone. Rain
will come, a gutter filled, an Amazon,
long aisles- you never heard so deep a sound,
moss on rock, and years. You turn your head-
that’s what the silence meant: you’re not alone.
The whole wide world pours down.

What the Living Do by Mary Howe

Johnny, the kitchen sink has been clogged for days, some utensil probably fell down there.

And the Drano won’t work but smells dangerous, and the crusty dishes have piled up

waiting for the plumber I still haven’t called. This is the everyday we spoke of.

It’s winter again: the sky’s a deep, headstrong blue, and the sunlight pours through

the open living-room windows because the heat’s on too high in here and I can’t turn it off.

For weeks now, driving, or dropping a bag of groceries in the street, the bag breaking,

I’ve been thinking: This is what the living do. And yesterday, hurrying along those

wobbly bricks in the Cambridge sidewalk, spilling my coffee down my wrist and sleeve,

I thought it again, and again later, when buying a hairbrush: This is it.
Parking. 

Slamming the car door shut in the cold. What you called that yearning.

What you finally gave up. We want the spring to come and the winter to pass. We want 

whoever to call or not call, a letter, a kiss—we want more and more and then more of it.

But there are moments, walking, when I catch a glimpse of myself in the window glass,

say, the window of the corner video store, and I’m gripped by a cherishing so deep

for my own blowing hair, chapped face, and unbuttoned coat that I’m speechless:

I am living. I remember you.